


All Boundaries are Conventions

by art_brutal



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Black Parade, Alternate Universe - Cloud Atlas, Alternate Universe - Desolation Row, Alternate Universe - I'm Not Okay Video, Alternate Universe - Killjoys, Alternate Universe - The Ghost Of You Video, Bandom Big Band 2013, Epistolary, M/M, Pretentious, Suicide, villain!Grant Morrison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/art_brutal/pseuds/art_brutal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things change but some things stay the same. Cloud Atlas / My Chemical Romance music videos fusion. Frank, Gerard, Mikey and Grant meet over and over again in different ways and as different people in a series of interlocking stories, each taking place in the universe of one of MCR's videos (Not OK, Ghost of You, Welcome to the Black Parade, Desolation Row and Killjoys).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Livejournal of Gerard Arthur Way (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for Bandom Big Bang 2013 Wave 3 and is also posted on my [lj](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/10681.html).
> 
>  
> 
> Please check out the excellent [mix](http://www.mediafire.com/download/h32zzjr1zk2haw7/This_Is_More_Than_Entertainment-A_Mix_For_All_Boundaries_Are_Conventions_.zip) by [tresamusant](tresamusant.dreamwidth.org).
> 
>  
> 
> A massive thank you to [dapatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/) who saw my first forays into this fic and encouraged me to continue and to [chaotic_good](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chaotic_good/) who stepped in at the last minute to work her beta magic. (All remaining mistakes are my own.)
> 
>  
> 
> Title is from **Cloud Atlas** by David Mitchell.
> 
>  
> 
> **Additional trigger warnings:** character death (on- and off-screen), suicide (in chapter 10), weird sex (in chapter 7), non-consensual sex (in chapter 1).
> 
> (If you have any questions or want more information please message me.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What will it take to show you that it's not the life it seems?"_ \- My Chemical Romance, **I'm Not Okay - I Promise**

 

 

 

**Mon 10 Sep. 2012**

Started my new school today. You won't believe how awful it is. It's on the other fucking side of town and I have to wear a hideous preppy uniform. And Mikey's not even here: he's staying at our old school. Senior year is going to blow. I can't believe my mom's making me go here. Just because they have a great art programme. I can draw comics anywhere!

At least at my old school no one knew who I was. There was this big assembly this morning and they made all us new students stand on stage. There's this one other guy, Ray, who seems pretty decent. Talked to him about D&D for a while. One good thing in an ocean of suck.

They've got this British artist guy in to lead the art programme. He's called Grant Morrison and he's super-weird. I had to go meet him this afternoon and, when I got to the art room, he was sorting through piles of sculpted teeth. Except I asked him about them and they're _real_ teeth. He said they're for grinding and mixing with pigment to make paint. Even _I_ was creeped out by that.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Wed 12 Sep.**

We had our first proper art class today. Mr Morrison is actually awesome! The walls of his room are covered in all this crazy shit - comics, quasi-mystical stuff - I think I saw some sketches from his work on 'Arkham Asylum'.

He told us to draw whatever we wanted. I'm working on this idea for a character at the moment that's a cross between a vampire and a robot and a zombie. I was thinking about armies of them that suck blood on command. I might call it a 'Draculoid'. Haven't decided for sure, though.

Mr Morrison said it was really good! He wants me to keep working on it. I was thinking red and black for the colour scheme but he said black and white is better so I might just go with that. I need to keep working on it so I'd better go do that now. Except I've somehow misplaced some of the sketches. I'm sure they'll turn up. I'm also making this portrait of two doomed lovers so I'll work on that instead.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Thu 13 Sep.**

All these fucking high schools are the same. The same jocks and cheerleader types policing the hallways. The same kids being shit on, day after day, while the teachers ignore them. This week I've seen some guy pee in another guy's football helmet, the school mascot kicked in the head and, I'm pretty sure, two teachers having sex in a closet.

Had gym today. It was swimming. There's no way I was gonna wear shorts. The coach tried to make me swim in my fucking uniform. Douchebag. I wouldn't (did he really think I would?) and I ended up with detention tomorrow with Mr Morrison. Hopefully he'll let me work on my art. Next week it's croquet. Who the fuck plays croquet at school?

Ate lunch alone on the steps. At least no one bothered me there. Except I saw another kid have sandwiches thrown at him. There's nowhere safe in this place.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Fri 14 Sep.**

Detention was ... weird. Mr Morrison (he says I have to call him Grant) and the principal were there along with about 15 other kids. They staged this big debate about the hierarchy of the school and where everyone fits in.

The principal gave a speech about how discipline is important for making sure the school runs smoothly. He's pretty fucking scary but it's just the same old bullshit. All he wants is good test scores to make sure he gets his performance-related bonus from the school board.

I might just be a kid, but I'm pretty sure draconian enforcement of stupid school rules isn't the way to get that. And it's definitely not the way to make school bearable for us poor souls who have to go there every day. Does he even realise what it's like? - slaving away endlessly for something we never wanted in the first place? If it wasn't for a well-stocked art supplies closet (and the fact that my mom would castrate me), I would've dropped out ages ago.

Mr Morrison - Grant - has a bit more of a clue. I can tell he's totally trying to win us over, but his theory that school is like a natural system, with predators and prey that need to find a natural balance seems to make sense. I'm okay with being a dung beetle as long as I don't get stepped on by a cheetah.

Btw, he loved my 'Demolition Lovers' canvas. Told me it was a "cathected example of the high school order", whatever the fuck that means. He wants to hang it in his office. I totally thought I was going to get in trouble for drawing nude characters, but Grant seems to get it. At least his class isn't going to be so bad.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Mon 17 Sep.**

I take it all back.

Nothing is worth the shit that happens in this school. I don't care what great art and music classes it offers - when the school gates close in the morning a battle starts raging and no one is safe from the crossfire.

I finally got some info on the kid that had sandwiches thrown at him. His name's Frank and it seems the projectile bread thing is practically a love letter compared to the shit he has to put up with on a daily basis.

I saw him this morning when a girl across the hall opened her locker and he leapt out. Jesus. I was on the other side of the corridor and just about had a heart attack and _may_ have uttered a squeal. He tried to play it off like a prank, straightening his tie as he limped off, but there's no way he stuffed himself in there voluntarily and managed to lock the door from the outside. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.

I had gym again and would rather have a million detentions than give the other kids the chance to pelt me with croquet mallets so I hid in the changing rooms instead, planning to work on my comic.

I was hiding in an alcove and getting some inking done when I heard a crash as someone fell against one of the lockers. I peeked my head around the corner and saw Frank being slammed into the lockers by four guys I didn't recognise, but, if I had to guess, I'd say they were on the football team. The sounds made me feel sick as they punched and kicked him, called him a fag and spat in his face.

I was too scared to move, to make a sound. What could I do against four of them? I kept as still as I could, held my breath and hoped they wouldn't notice I was there.

They tossed Frank face first across a bench and I heard a sickening crack. He landed on the floor facing me and our eyes met. His face contorted in pain, I couldn't look away. I owed him that much. I heard a belt buckle being undone and a zip tugged down. Flesh slapped against flesh and still Frank's eyes bore into mine.

His hand lay close enough to me that I could risk reaching out without the other guys seeing. I grabbed Frank's hand as stealthily as I could and he gripped back so hard it hurt, but I wouldn't let go. Time seemed to slow down and all I was aware of was the weight of his hand in mine and the weight of his gaze on me.

The door to the changing rooms swung open and time started to move forward again at normal speed. Grant's voice demanded the boys tell him what they were doing. Frank's hand was ripped from mine and the boys hauled Frank back onto his feet while I heard them tell him they had found Frank like this and were taking him to the nurse's office. Bullshit. I heard Frank agree in a weak voice.

I waited until they had gone and the door had swung shut behind them before I dared to move.

I crept down the hallway to make sure Frank was really going to end up at the nurse's office. I waited until the guys left him and watched them swagger off down the hallway, crowing and laughing all the way.

Outside the nurse's office I overheard the nurse asking Frank what had happened and listened to him lie, obviously terrified of retribution if he told the truth.

How can the school let people get away with this?

At least there's going to be an art field-trip in a few weeks to New York. We're gonna have art classes in a real studio in the mornings and in the afternoons go visit MoMA and the Guggenheim and some more underground places Grant knows about. I can't wait to get out of here, even if it's just for a week. I feel bad about leaving Frank to deal with the bullies alone, but it's not like I can do much to help him. We're not even friends, really.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Fri 21 Sep.**

I hope Frank's ok. I haven't seen him at school since that day in the locker room and I don't even have his phone number or email to check on him.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Tue 9 Oct.**

Field trip tomorrow! What to pack ...

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Wed 10 Oct.**

In NY! The hotel is great. I'm sharing a room with Grant. The bus ride took forever. With the traffic and the terrible weather it feels like we were voyaging around the globe not just driving from Jersey to the city. I don't really know any of the other kids on the trip - they must have art class at a different time. They all seem to know each other, though. I found a quiet spot at the back of the bus to spend some time sketching and stay off their radars - they don't seem very friendly. It'll be worth it to see the art. And to hear Grant's stories. He said he might even be able to introduce me to some real artists in the city.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Wed 10 Oct. (later)**

I'm typing this on my phone so the spelling etc might be a bit shitty. Grant hasn't come back to the room yet and it's *checks watch* 1am. But that's actually great news because earlier, when I was getting ready for bed, I heard shuffling from the bathroom. Grant couldn't have gotten in there without me seeing so I was terrified of who it could be. I grabbed my jacket and tried to leave the room but the bathroom door swung open and FRANK was there! He's not even supposed to be on this trip.

I hadn't seen him since the incident in the locker room and the bruises on his face were mostly healed but he looked as terrified as I was. He told me he snuck into the baggage hold on the bus and then snuck into my room. I don't know how he got in without anyone seeing.

It's Grant's room and he's going to be back any time now so I'll have to tell him. But Frank begged me not to. What if I get kicked off the trip? I can't hide him in here for a whole week. What happens when Grant needs to use the bathroom? I don't know what to do. I guess I have until Grant gets back to figure it out. Frank's asleep in the bath for now, but I want to have a chance to talk to Grant before he sees him, to plead his case. Maybe he can stay on the trip with us. Wish me luck.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Thu 11 Oct.**

That could have gone worse.

Grant didn't get in until morning. He said he'd been visiting friends who live in the city. He was furious. I suppose he was just worried because Frank was on the school trip without a permission slip and Grant could get into a lot of trouble. I tried to tell him that it wasn't safe for Frank at school, that he was being abused. Grant asked Frank if it was because he was gay and Frank said yes. Then he told me to join the others for breakfast while he spoke to Frank.

Frank came to breakfast later and Grant is letting him stay on the trip. I asked him what Grant said to him when they were alone. He said it was a lecture about running away but I could tell he was hiding something. I expected him to be happy about staying but, if anything, he looked even more scared than before. At least we got to hang out together at breakfast. After that, Grant said Frank had to stay at the hotel because he wasn't really in this art class. I can tell art's not really his thing (he likes music) but he listened to me talk on and on about the amazing stuff we saw and all the stuff I'm going to paint. I think I'm going to draw something for him. Maybe a Frankenstein creature?

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Fri 12 Oct.**

I can't even tell you how good today was. Art class this morning was amazing. Grant told me to keep working on those Dracula-things. He suggested some layouts and backgrounds and things and I altered what I had to fit them. They ended up different to how I had imagined them but he says they're better so I must be doing something right.

And then we visited this little gallery in a sketchy part of town. It was a really old building that looked like something out of Tim Burton's 'Batman' - all gloomy shadows and even fucking gargoyles on the roof. I'd give anything to see my work on those walls one day. I asked Grant if he thought I was good enough and he said that I definitely could be if I work hard and listen to everything he has to teach me. How cool is that?

I haven't seen Frank all day so I guess he's staying with some of the other kids on this trip. I tried to ask Grant if he could at least come to the next gallery visit (because it was so awesome) but he told me to stop whining about it. I guess he's pretty stressed with having to look after all of us all week so I'll try not to annoy him.

I wanted to draw this evening but I can't find my -


	2. Letters from the Asylum (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I never said I'd lie in wait forever / If I died we'd be together"_ – My Chemical Romance, **The Ghost of You**

**Chateau Zedelghem, Bruges, Belgium**

**20 November 1918**

Dearest Frank,

I had that dream again. You were there, and Ray, and Mikey was alive and there was a large blonde guy I didn't recognise. We were playing music together - unlike any I've ever heard - in a space out of time. The music rose to a crescendo and our instruments smashed themselves to pieces. It was a frightful cacophony - like electricity and demons' teeth gnashing together - and I saw myself, hand outstretched, beseeching and pleading but I don't know what for. I saw two figures, one of darkness, one of light, reach out across the abyss of space and connect. And when they did, they turned to ash and fell. I saw that things would remain the same forever, just as they would forever change. And in that moment I knew that the boundaries between things are meaningless, though the hundreds of miles of space between us may seem insurmountable.

And then I awoke, startled by the sounds of non-existent gunfire from a war long over, and the image fled. Mikey, as ever, was foremost in my thoughts. Ray tried to save him back there on the beach, I know he did, but I can't help think ... They wouldn't let me go back for his body. You know. You were there.

I'm sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. You looked so peaceful there in that hotel bed in Ypres, your ink stark against the white sheets, your hair, grown out from regulation length, splayed against the pillow.

I couldn't bear to wake you so I had to slip away in the night. I know our unit was supposed to ship out back to America that morning but I made my way to Bruges. I do hope you'll forgive me for abandoning you, but I can't go home. In every chair and tea cup I see memories of Mikey. And I can't stand to look at my father's face and see him wish that his other son had been the one to return.

There's a sergeant, Sergeant Morrison, I met on my first tour (when you were still in basic training) who I have a mind to look up and proposition. He runs a small cabaret club in Bruges. He used to tell the troops about it while the enemy was firing and all we could do was wait out their attack before beginning our own. I hope it's still standing.

He used to perform as a pianist, and people came from all over to listen, but the war took his right hand as well as his passion for entertaining. He didn't exactly invite me but I know I can persuade him to let me play piano for him. The club has a certain - how shall I say it? - "reputation" and they often struggle to find musicians. It's nothing you or (mostly) I would find offensive, but I'll just say that those with a flexible attitude towards gender and sexuality can find refuge there. I hope you're not too scandalised. You shouldn't be, considering what we got up to under the cover of canvas behind the Front Line. Of all the things I regret about the war, you are the only thing I wouldn't change.

I've bunked down at an inn outside the city for the night and tomorrow will make my way to Arkham Asylum. I hope the club's name will not prove to be prophetic.

Yours always, in heart and mind,

Gerard.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Arkham Asylum, Bruges, Belgium**

**21 November 1918**

Dearest Frank,

I did it! I got the old curmudgeon to hire me!

After enquiring in the town - and getting a rather frosty reception - I found my way to the club. I arrived around lunchtime and had to knock for a very long time before anyone came to the door. It was opened by a burly blonde American fellow who looked uncannily like the soldier in my dream. He looked rough and dirty in a leather apron and I took him for hired help. After explaining my connection to Sergeant Morrison and my offer of services as a pianist and singer, I waited on the doorstep as he decided whether to allow me entrance. I almost withered under his stern gaze, as I was presenting myself as a favourite of the Sergeant's while, in truth, I wasn't sure he would remember me. And, more desperately, I didn't have the money to stay at the inn for another night. (Is there something you can do to help me, Frank? Even a few dollars would go a long way here. Wire it to Chateau Zedelghem.)

I was about to turn tail and leave, with no back-up plan in place, when a certain expression flitted across his face and I could tell that he had also seen combat. He thrust out a hand for me to shake, gruffly introduced himself as Bob and invited me inside. He told me to make myself useful as he went to awaken the Sergeant.

The club was far more glamorous inside. Though faded, dark velvets and other sumptuous fabrics were artistically draped to create the illusion of partitions. A raised area at one end served as the stage, containing a grand piano off to the side and covered with a dusty sheet, as well as a gramophone. It was overlooked by rows of tables, each with an oil lamp and mismatched chairs that looked as if they came from such disparate places as an opera house and a blacksmith's workshop. Skirting the edges of the room were booths, afforded privacy by the curtained partitions and filled with cushions and the occasional chaise longue.

Opposite the stage was a bar, far more ornate than I would have expected and astonishingly well-stocked, and to the left a staircase to what I presumed were the living quarters.

There were crates of wine on the floor and I assumed Bob had meant me to start stacking them but, even if I had planned to partake in such menial labour, Bob returned before I had finished taking in the sights of the club.

I barely recognised the Sergeant. I had seen him stretchered off the battlefield, his right arm a bloody mess of ligaments and his mouth cursing the enemy, our army, the war and anything else he could think of. Now he looked decades older and, though still as tall and broad shouldered, there was a tragic frailty to his stance. He stood slightly behind Bob, his right forearm ending in a bandaged stump, and peered at me as I launched into my pitch. I was midway into explaining how inspirational his leadership was during the war and how much I would like the chance to repay him by performing in his club as a pianist. (In my mind the debt was the other way around - that he should be thankful for my offer - but with such a limited bank balance I pretended otherwise.)

"I have no need of such a musician," he barked, cutting me off. "We have a gramophone for accompaniment."

"Well then I can be a singer," I countered.

"I have one of those, too," he replied dismissively and turned to go back up the stairs.

Despairing at the failure of my one and only plan, I turned to leave before I was humiliated further. Bob stopped me with a sharp look and a silent gesture towards the piano on the stage.

Before I could think it through, I dashed to the stage, threw the dust sheet from the piano and prayed it was in tune before launching into the music I recalled from my dream.

Frank, I couldn't write down the notation for what I played even if I had a hundred years. Somehow, the music poured out of me as I thought of you, of Mikey, of everything I had lost and still had to lose.

When the music came to an end (and I will not pretend that I had any control over it, rather it played _me_ ), I looked up to see the Sergeant leaning on the bar and listening with a beatific expression on his face.

The final chord melted away and he seemed to snap back to reality, his gruffness descending, as he barked:

"You'll do. But you'll have to learn the songs we play here. I want none of that fancy malarkey in front of the customers."

He resumed his exit up the stairs and, as I breathed a sigh of relief at having somewhere to stay and a paying job, I realised that Bob was still watching me. I threw a lazy salute in his direction and watched a smirk bloom on his lips. It seems Bob is not just a lackey. I think things are going to be very interesting here.

Yours always,

Gerard.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Arkham Asylum, Bruges**

**1 December 1918**

Frank, darling, only $10? I can't live on that! Can't you end some more? The Sergeant isn't paying me half of what I'm worth. He does have a rather lovely book collection, though, which is currently only collecting dust. I'm enclosing a list of the most promising-looking titles. Be a dear and visit old Mr McFeeley who runs that bookshop in Bellevue. Ask him what he'll pay and I'll send the most valuable ones to you. Don't let him low-ball you.

You wouldn't believe the dreadful music they have me playing. After I convinced the Sergeant to let me stay he told me to learn the club's repertoire from the gramophone records! It's so banal: double entendre-laden songs that wouldn't raise an eyebrow never mind anything else, syrupy ballads and the least convincing political satire I've had the misfortune to hear. At least the orchestration isn't difficult so I managed to learn most of it to a passable degree before the show that first night.

Bob kept finding reasons to be in the bar while I practiced. I have no reason to think he won't toss me out on my ear if I screw up and I'm beginning to think that keeping him happy would be a wise move. It won't exactly be a hardship - his strong soldier's body has been kept in shape by the constant lifting of crates of alcohol, which he does all himself. I fancied that, once or twice, I saw the Sergeant's face or shoulder at the entrance to the stairs but I couldn't be sure.

I had been informed by Bob that a Spencer Smith would be singing that uninspired set list but since he was in town on an errand, we wouldn't have time to rehearse together. As long as he could hold a tune and sing at the pace I set, I didn't foresee a problem.

The club steadily grew busier throughout the early evening as the hour of my debut grew nearer. There was no sign of Spencer. Just as I was sitting at the piano and resigning myself to both playing and singing, an elegant figure in a floor-sweeping red dress strode onto the stage and, with barely a backwards glance at me, counted us in to the first number. I overcame my surprise and let my fingers run almost automatically through the first notes. Glancing up I saw the Sergeant watching me from the bar with the most curious expression on his face.

Then Spencer began to sing. I was captivated by the sweet sounds coming from the vision in red before me. You know I have a decent set of pipes, Frank, but this boy was something else. I thanked the gods that the music was so easy to play as it allowed me to focus on Spencer's willowy back, his graceful spine framed by the low cut of the dress, his gloved right hand creating artful patterns in the air while the left perched on a coquettishly cocked hip. I was entranced, and I hadn't even seen his face.

The first half of the set flew by and soon he was announcing that he would take a break, during which he would be at the bar and was very willing to be bought champagne. Before he left the stage I leapt up from the piano stool and exclaimed my joy at his voice. Spencer turned cold, calculating eyes on me for a second before continuing his walk to the bar. He didn't even consider me worthy of a response. My heart throbbed with anguish and I resolved to change his mind or, if he would not, make him suffer the way he had made me suffer. You have no idea, Frank, how it feels to desire and be so denied.

I am, truly yours,

Gerard.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Arkham Asylum, Bruges**

**18 December 1918**

Darling,

Was that the best you could get from McFeeley? The old scrooge. I'll send you the titles he requested. Your concern is touching but the Sergeant cares for nothing but whisky - he'll never notice they're missing.

I found a rather curious volume when I was conducting another search of his bookshelves. The story was most gripping, a tale of a naive young boy - also called Gerard - from some remote time and place who is in the grip of his duplicitous art teacher. The suspense is delicious, especially since he can't see how much he is being taken advantage of or how much danger he is in. Unfortunately, the book is ripped in half and leaves off mid-sentence. Can you ask that old miser if he can track down a complete copy for me? The title is 'The Livejournal of Gerard Arthur Way'.

I realise I've told you very little of my daily life here. Though the Sergeant owns the club, he leaves most of the day-to-day running to Bob. And Bob is not nearly as bland as he first appeared. The two of them are partners in more than just business and, as their bedroom is adjacent to mine, I often hear remonstrating at all hours of the night. Bob clearly dotes on the Sergeant, who can be very sweet to him, but then he will fly into terribly rages and curse Bob to hell. It seems to be no coincidence that these rages tend to occur when the Sergeant has been drinking, often while sitting on the piano stool and picking out notes with his left hand.

After one such incident, I noticed a sheaf of musical notations on top of the piano. They appeared to be an original composition by the Sergeant. It wasn't half bad, though rather derivative and, of course, impossible for the Sergeant to play by himself.

Later that night, there was a knock on my door as I was drifting off to sleep (with more than a few lusty thoughts about Spencer in - and out - of that red dress on my mind). I opened the door a crack and Bob quietly slipped in, as he has taken to doing on a semi-regular basis. He kissed me roughly and backed me against the wall. I was hardly in a position to complain - if I did he would tell the Sergeant and have me thrown out on my ear - and, though Bob was not my first choice, he was a suitably skilled partner nonetheless.

I enjoy our nocturnal trysts and, I suppose, I enjoy knowing that the Sergeant is ignorant of them. What I don't enjoy is the way Bob has begun to linger after we have sated ourselves physically. He lies in my bed when I long to sleep and tells me things I desperately don't want to hear - about the Sergeant's melancholia, about how he sometimes despises him for it yet always feels bad afterwards, about the way the Sergeant dotes on Spencer despite Spencer's barely concealed desire for Bob. I want nothing to do with the sordid love triangle taking place under this roof. But, still, it does please me to know that Spencer is as spurned as I am, and that everyone can see what an old fool the Sergeant is.

On that particular night, Bob entered my room with the same sheaf of papers I'd seen on the piano earlier.

"It would mean a lot to me," he began, "if you would play these for him."

"What's in it for me?" I asked.

"You get to continue living under this roof, playing the piano every night, earning a cut of the takings. And I don't wire your father and tell him you're here."

I realised I had no choice. Furthermore, I realised that Bob was only interested in me to the extent that I could help the Sergeant.

Yours,

Gee.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Arkham Asylum, Bruges**

**21 December 1918**

F,

That wretched old fool! At the very least he is deluded and at most he's diabolical! Each day the Sergeant brings me something to play and each day it is more incomplete. He throws a few notes down on paper, shouts a few adjectives at me and then, when I use my talents to mould them into an accomplished piece of music he congratulates _himself_.

One night, as I was keeping Bob occupied there was a knock at my door. Bob and I froze as the door creaked open and the Sergeant shuffled in. He was so soused on whisky I was able to jump out of bed, throw the covers over Bob and lead the Sergeant to my armchair as I sat opposite him on the ottoman, all without him noticing the extra body in the room.

"Your arrival here has had its merits, I suppose," he started.

I tried to cut him off and usher him out of my room before he started a lengthy diatribe against my character but he gripped my arm painfully and continued:

"It will be a successful partnership. I'm sure of it. You get a roof over your ungrateful head, an income, the chance to learn about songwriting and I get, well, I get you."

"What exactly do you mean-"

"I'm not finished, boy! We are to write a symphony. It came to me in a dream this very night - sounds so unnatural I cannot recall ever having heard anything like it before. And the sights that I dreamt! There was a nightmarish concert in a brightly-lit, sanitised space of glass and shiny metal, filled with faceless youths uniformly swaying to synthetic music. They were surrounded on all sides by frightful figures dressed in white, carrying guns and wearing vampiric masks. I shall compose a symphony entitled 'Planetary (GO)' which will bring me worldwide fame and you, as my amanuensis, will earn your fair share."

With that, he rose and lurched out of the room. I breathed a sigh of relief that the immediate danger of discovery was over but the larger danger loomed - I don't want to be beholden to the Sergeant for any longer than necessary.

Bob waited until we could hear snoring through the wall and then crept back to his own bed, but not before begging me to indulge the Sergeant in his wishes. I fear that I have made myself _too_ indispensable in this household, between Bob relying upon me for emotional support and the Sergeant for my piano skills. Spencer is the only one who seems immune to my charms, as luck would have it, and he is away visiting friends in Amsterdam. I have no allies and no witness to the injustices that are being committed against me.

Yet, with my current financial situation it seems pragmatic to stay on here, at least through the winter, and assist the Sergeant with his dream music. But I'll be damned if I let him take any more of my best work. I shall continue to compose in secret.

Yours,

Gerard.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

**Arkham, Bruges**

**26 December 1918**

F,

Have begun writing again with renewed fervour. Images haunt my waking hours - gas masks, dark columns of men marching to war as if in a parade, a lone patient in a hospital gown wandering on the battlefield. The notes fly out of my fingertips and my pen can barely keep up with my mind - wave after wave of music so sad yet so vital, so true to the real experience of life.

I can't even begin to describe it.

I can't wait for you to hear it.

I'm calling it 'The Black Parade'.

-G.


	3. After-Lives: The First Gerard Way Mystery (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He said, 'Son when you grow up, would you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned?'"_ \- My Chemical Romance, **Welcome to the Black Parade**

**New York, 1970s**

ONE

Frank leans out of his fourth-storey window and exhales the last drag of his cigarette. He looks across the street to the corporate-sponsored music venue that keeps him awake at night. He casts his eyes over the already-fading posters for the latest vapid teen popstar who is playing that night and sighs, too tired to muster up the energy to be angry at the dilapidated state of contemporary music.

His eyes follow a figure that looks out of place: a young guy in a leather jacket, tight, tight trousers and a mop of dirty black hair. The figure turns around and Frank nearly falls out of the window. If it wasn't for the fact of the fifty intervening years since he saw him in Belgium, he would swear it was Gerard down there in the street.

But that was a different world in a different time. Gerard has been dead for many years and Frank has left the army far behind him and made a life for himself in New York.

In his job at the record company he has watched countless talented souls beg for a recording contract and a chance to bring their music to a bigger audience. And, worse, he has watched them eaten up by record contracts, their talent and energy turned into sanitised pop songs for profit. He scoffs at the thought of music cooked up in a lab and spoon-fed down the throats of mindless consumers. This "music" is so far away from songwriting as an artform that it is barely recognisable. He remembers Gerard's habit of singing to him in bed and thinks wryly of how disappointed he would be with the state of modern music.

The sweet taste of nicotine and tar in his throat turns to acid as he recalls what he read in the newspaper that morning. The record company he used to work for walked a fine line between selling manufactured music and forcing it on the public. In his early days at the company he'd been involved in some research into the effect of music on the human mind. He remembers row upon row of teenagers with headphones clamped to their ears and IVs leaking god-knows-what into their veins. His results were whisked away to another department and Frank was forced to sign non-disclosures.

Frank has kept his secrets. Until his retirement he spent his time fighting the good fight on a small scale. He was responsible for bringing new acts to the company and, if they were very lucky, one or two of the hard-working, talented, exciting new voices he scouted each year would be given a contract. He tried to make sure that only those who deserved it were turned into stars.

This morning he'd read about the company's "exciting" plans to unveil a new music delivery method, and memories of those research labs came flooding back to him. The “Walkman" would be given out free to everyone and allow them to listen to the new cassette tapes that were introduced to replace vinyl.

Frank knows it isn't simply a new music playing format. Something far more sinister is going on. But what can he do? He's been out of the game since his retirement ten years ago. The record company is more successful than ever and, with each passing year, his old contacts are disappearing at an alarming rate.

The black-clad figure in the street disappears and, cursing his failing eyesight and his mind for playing cruel tricks on him, he scrabbles in his pocket with shaking fingers for another cigarette. Damn. The pack is empty. He'll have to go to the corner store, something he is loath to do so late at night and with the street so full of drunken concert-goers.

Grabbing his walking stick and jacket - the one with the peace sign buttoned to the lapel - he shuffles towards the door.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

In the elevator he can't stop his mind returning to the figure and the memories it stirs of the man he knew long ago, a man who had embodied the ethos of punk decades before it had been given a name. The war was a crazy time, and the years after it even worse, as broken young men tried to learn how to live at peace. Gerard hadn't managed it. He'd always been at odds with the time. In Bruges, Frank thought that Gerard had finally found a place to belong, where he could channel all his energy into artistic creation, whether on stage or in the music he wrote. How wrong he had been. Frank's thoughts turn dark as he realises he has been mourning Gerard for more than twice the amount of time he was alive. He has never loved another so completely again.

The street successfully navigated and cigarettes safely stowed in his pocket, he returns to the sanctity of the elevator to take him back to his little corner of the world. Just as the doors are closing, he hears footsteps running and a muffled curse. Something compels him to hold the door and Gerard's face appears in the gap between the metal.

For a second, all Frank can do is stare and forget how to breathe. When he remembers himself, he steps back and allows the apparition to enter. His heart hammers as he steals glances at his elevator companion. Now that he's thinking clearly, he can see the differences. This man looks a little older than _his_ Gerard, when he saw him last. His hair is longer, he's wearing eyeliner and there's black polish on his nails but, more than that, there's an innocence to him that had disappeared from his Gerard's eyes somewhere on a beach in World War I.

And then he sees it. Amongst the smattering of badges on the man's lapel is a tiny peace symbol.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

TWO

 

Gerard is covertly scoping out the old guy in the elevator when it abruptly grinds to a halt. He flings his arms out to catch himself. The old guy looks a little unsteady on his feet.

"Are you OK?" he asks him.

"Fine, fine," the old guy replies. "I bet you're wishing you hadn't caught this elevator now, huh? Sometimes the power goes out for hours."

"I got nowhere I have to be," Gerard replies.

"We might as well settle in," Frank says, holding out a hand. "I'm Frank."

"Gerard," is the reply. Frank tries not to look too shocked.

"So what do you do, Gerard?" he asks.

"I'm a journalist. Music. Though there's not much of the real stuff around these days," Gerard replies.

"You're telling me! Time was, music actually meant something. The people making it had something to say. Listen to me rambling on like an old codger." Frank smiles, despite himself.

"Nah, man. I totally get it. Something's different about the music the radio pumps out now. And I don't just mean that it's crappy."

Frank silently appraises Gerard. He tries to quash the feeling that he knows him already and has to remind himself that he's a stranger.

"Who do you write for?" Frank asks. He knows the major music press is in the pay of his old record company and as such is little more than free advertising.

"You probably haven't heard of it. 'Spyglass'? It's pretty underground. Has to be to keep it off the radars of the Powers That Be. But, hey, it pays the bills. Or near enough."

"So you're not a fan of chart music?" Franks probes, an idea forming in his mind.

"Hell no! Half the bilge that the major labels spew out is unlistenable, the rest practically criminal."

"If only you knew," Frank mumbles to himself. He steels himself to ask: "You look familiar. Do I know you from a band or something?”

"No," Gerard shakes his head. "I prefer to stay out of the limelight. My brother, that's another story. His name's Mikey. He was something else on stage. Until that record company got their claws into him. They scooped out everything that was talented, original, beautiful in him and filled him with that shit they have the nerve to call music. He didn't survive." Sorrow flits across his face. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to lay all this on you. It just feels so natural, talking to you."

"I understand," Frank says. For a long moment he holds Gerard's gaze and tries to deal with the feeling that he knows this young man.

Frank clears his throat. "What if I could tell you some of the stuff that's really going on at the record labels. Would you be able to do anything with the information? Get it into your magazine? I'll warn you, it could get very dangerous."

Gerard hesitates for a minute but looks resolved: "What kind of brother would I be if I didn't even try?"

Frank releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He tells Gerard about the Walkman, about how he's sure it does more than play music, how it influences minds and he doesn't know what else. He tells him about what he saw back when he worked at the record company, about how he was too scared for all those years to do anything about it. He tells him about the document he wrote containing blueprints for the Walkman and incriminating evidence against the record company, and that if Gerard can get it out there something can be done.

Frank darts out a shaky hand and grasps Gerard's arm in a vice-like grip. "It won't be easy. They have power you can't even imagine. You'd better prepare yourself for one hell of a battle. But I know you have the strength to fight this."

Immediately, the elevator lurches back into life and Gerard stumbles backwards. Frank wishes Gerard luck one last time, presses a card with his phone number into Gerard's hand and exits on the fourth floor.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

THREE

 

The elevator stops on Gerard's floor and, as the doors open, the lights fritz out for a second. When they come back on, Gerard blinks. It's like he's stepped from Technicolor into grey-scale. Instead of the familiar dirty corridor he's faced with a vast wasteland of charcoal-coloured debris and swirling ash. To say he's confused is an understatement.

Mercifully, the elevator is still behind him. He returns to its relative safety and hits the button for the lobby. He's had a feeling for a long time that there's something sinister going on behind the scenes in the music industry and the only one to take his fears seriously has been his boss at 'Spyglass', Brian, so that's where he's going to go.

He catches sight of his reflection in the brushed steel door. He immediately raises a hand to his hair to confirm what he sees. The shaggy black mop he had minutes ago has been replaced with a white-blonde close crop. He looks at his shaking hand and is shocked by how pale and spectral it looks. He prays that some things have stayed the same, and that Brian's office hasn't been similarly transformed.

Gerard exits the building and cautiously looks around the blasted landscape. Zeppelins whir overhead and he can hear the sound of marching. It looks how he imagines a war in hell would look.

Gerard reels as, walking towards him, seemingly oblivious to the charred rocks under his bare feet, is his brother. Mikey is wearing a patient's white gown. Ghostly pale and with large dark circles under his eyes he looks, quite frankly, dead.

Gerard can't get his mouth to form words. He hasn't seen Mikey since well before his death, the record company made sure of that. Tears start to form in his eyes.

"Don't Gee," Mikey says softly. "It's not that bad here."

Gerard reaches out to touch Mikey but his hand sinks through Mikey's shoulder without making contact.

"You can't touch me because you're not dead," Mikey says. He quirks a smile. "I'm pretty sure that's a good thing."

"Oh Mikey," Gerard exclaims, his hands fluttering around as if he wants to touch him. "What's going on?"

"Far more than you know. Hell, more than I know and I was part of it. There are powers at work that are not of this world."

"What do you mean?" Gerard asks. "We're dealing with consumer-driven capitalism, right? It's cold and ruthless and doesn't value human life but it can be fought."

"Come," says Mikey. "I'll show you."

Mikey points to a parade float that has appeared out of nowhere. Atop it is an assortment of black clad figures, like stagehands or mimes.

Mikey begins to speak and the figures act out what he is telling Gerard. He tells him about the two planes that exist side by side - the corporeal plane and the spectral plane - occupying the same space but separated by death. He tells him about those who exist in both planes and the existence of magic to move between them. Music is the key. Only the most exquisite melodies, sung by the pure of heart can be trapped and used as a key to move between the planes. Music sung from the heart contains so much power. The record company harnesses it and sells cheap imitations to the record-buying public.

"That's what they needed me for," Mikey explains. "My music was like an all-areas pass. But there was only so much they could take before it killed me. Now I'm stuck here."

Gerard's mind is reeling. He doesn't know what to say.

"We're here," Mikey says, before Gerard has a chance to come up with a response.

Mikey raises a hand and Gerard follows the direction to see that Brian's office - little more than a desk in his basement - is recognisable even on this plane.

"You're going to need his help," Mikey explains. "Brian knows more than he lets on. But that means he has more to lose. And I'll help you when I can, but the record company still has its claws in me. I don't have as much freedom as I'd like, even in death."

"I'm sorry, Mikey," Gerard says, overwhelmed with sorrow.

"Don't be," Mikey replies, smiling. "You never let me down. But you really need to see Brian now."

Gerard allows himself a minute to watch Mikey's back as he slowly walks off down the street, picking his way through the smoke and ash.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

FOUR

 

In this bizarre place, Brian's office is disconcertingly normal. Gerard knocks on the frosted glass door and waits a long time as he hears shuffling, cursing and wind whooshing before it finally opens.

"Jesus Christ, Gerard. Tell me you didn't get yourself killed?" Brian asks.

"No! I don't know how I got here! I was talking to this old guy about music and then the lights went out and suddenly my secular humanist view of the world has been radically overturned. What the hell is going on?"

"There's not a lot I can tell you, Gee. There are some pretty powerful forces at play here. What we call the music industry, it's more like the soul industry and, boy, people will pay a lot for immortality."

Gerard starts sputtering. He's at the end of his patience with things.

"Stop the cryptic bullshit, Brian, and tell me what the fuck's going on!" He paces back and forth across the room, trying to run a hand through his hair but finding no purchase on the newly-short strands. "New York is also some sort of hell dimension? The record company steals good music - killing the musicians in the process - and uses it for what? - bus tokens? Tell me why I should believe a word of this crap."

Brian looks sympathetic. "Because you're standing here. Because you've just spoken to your brother. I know it's unlikely but - open your eyes - it's real. And the record company uses the music for more than just inter-plane travel. They have a way to transform music - only if it's written with integrity, played with passion and comes from the heart - into a life force. They can use it for anything - wealth, popularity, immortality. At the moment extraction is difficult and the singer rarely survives for long. But they've got a new invention, the Walkman, which allows them to directly extract the energy of people enjoying music and, worse than that, to control their minds."

"And, what, you know all this but you still make a shitty little magazine that no-one reads apart from a few rock snobs? You could be telling the truth but instead you keep me in the dark and pay me to write pointless articles about how bland corporate music is and how much better the underground stuff is. What was the point?"

"It helps, Gee. Trust me. As long as I fly under the radar, don't make too much of a splash, I can get away with visiting this plane and keeping tabs on things. I couldn't tell you. You had to figure it out for yourself. If anyone can do something to change things, it's you."

Brian pauses to allow the weight of his statement settle.

"It's not going to be easy, Gee. But now you know. If you choose to act on this information I can give you some pointers but I can't come with you. In this dimension I can't leave this office."

Gerard chuckles, despite it being inappropriate. "You barely leave your office in the real world either."

"Screw you," Brian says, with no malice in it. His face becomes serious again. "You'll need tangible proof."

"Geez, could you be any more cryptic?" Gerard asks.

"I'm sorry. I'd help you more if I could, I promise. Don't under estimate the record company's ability to know everything that's going on. I'm going to get into enough trouble for this."

"If you're already in trouble, it can't hurt to get a little deeper?" Gerard wheedles.

Brian sighs. "You have no idea what they're capable of. Here, take this." He slides a piece of paper with a list of phone numbers into Gerard's hand. "Believe it or not, phone lines operate between the planes, if you can find a phone, that is. You can phone anyone in the corporeal plane. These numbers are access codes: each can be used once to teleport you between this plane and the phone you connect to. Use them wisely and, for god's sake, don't lose them."

Gerard looks at the scrap of paper. Like everything seems to be on this plane, it is torn and faded, the edges already charred and curling. There are three phone numbers. He tucks it into his wallet behind the picture of his brother.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

FIVE

 

Frank sits at his window and frets over his decision to tell Gerard some of the truth behind the record company's operations. Looking at the damning report he wrote, he knows the bosses must have realised by now, and only hopes that Gerard is strong enough to evade them.

He fingers soft, age-worn letters in his hands and thinks about the letters that his Gerard wrote to him from Zedelghem. It would be a blight on his Gerard's memory if he didn't take action, but he can't help feeling terrified.

Sitting down at his desk he rummages around for some paper and starts writing.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

SIX

 

Gerard has to try to warn Frank. He's pretty sure that Frank has no idea how deep this goes. He checks his pockets and, sure enough, he still has Frank's card. Now all he needs is a phone.

He takes a chance and walks to the street corner where he knows a public phone box exists in his New York. Miraculously, it's still there, sticking out incongruously among the heaps of rubble and demolished buildings. There's no answer. Gerard reasons that it could be the middle of the night and Frank's sleeping, or the middle of the day and Frank's out doing whatever old guys do during the day. It doesn't seem like time would progress normally in hell.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

SEVEN

 

Frank knows something very bad is about to happen. He hears a howling in the hallway and just has time to kick the packages he has finished assembling and addressing under his bed before a creature floats _through_ his front door.

He has time to take in the dreadful sight of a female apparition with a shock of white hair, a corseted dress that seems to be holding her upright and a gas mask instead of a face. He doesn't have time to make a sound and, as she reaches out a bony hand, his blood freezes.

Staring at his executor's masked face as she drains the remaining years from his life, his thoughts return to Europe all those decades ago and the one man whom he will never forget.

Released from her grip, his body crumples to the floor and the apparition dissipates in a cloud of dust along with the report.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

EIGHT

 

Frustrated at the sound of Frank's phone ringing out, Gerard wonders how to use a phone to travel between the planes. Before the thought has fully formed in his mind his surroundings are pulsating and changing. Colours leach into the grey and suddenly he's in an apartment, very much like his own.

He's standing next to a bed, behind which he can see a foot sticking out. He rushes to the foot and sees that it belongs to Frank.

A noise like nails in a woodchipper makes his head whip around to the right in time to see a vanishing apparition glowing ghostly white.

Gerard returns to the body and lets out a stifled sob. Frank's ashen pallor makes it clear that he is no longer alive. He sinks to the floor and lets his head fall into his hands, absently noting that his hair is back to its original length.

He lifts the body onto the bed and carefully arranges the cold limbs in a position mimicking comfort. He tenderly closes Frank's eyes and sees the corner of an envelope sticking out from under the bed. Crouching down reveals a package addressed to a Grace Iero. He also sees a shoebox with no lid, full of old letters addressed to Frank. Some impulse compels him to take the box along with the package, with the plan of getting as far away from the room as possible.

As far away ends up being Brian's office. For the first time Gerard can remember, Brian's not there but his office is the same and this continuity is enough to make Gerard think he's imagined the intervening events. Then he looks down at the bundle of papers in his hands and realises that Frank is really and truly dead.

He leaves the package for Grace in Brian's outgoing mail and settles down at Brian's desk to examine the old letters addressed to Frank. Ignoring the feeling that he's violating Frank's privacy he locates the one with the earliest date, 1818, and starts to read.

Hours later Brian still hadn't returned and Gerard is reeling from the story he has gleaned from the one-sided letters. Before, he would have dismissed it as a coincidence that Frank's friend (lover?) was called Gerard and had a brother named Mikey. After the events of the day he isn't so sure. He struggles to recognise himself in the letters. Bits and pieces of information seem to fit, but the biggest puzzle piece, the old Gerard's obvious love for Frank, is missing from his life. Gerard has never felt kinship of the soul with another human being and something in him aches at the loss of something he has never had.

The letters make mention of a piece of music, 'The Black Parade', and Gerard feels that if he could only hear it, he would understand the old, doomed Gerard better. He has no idea how long has passed but daylight is striping through the basement's high windows so he calls his favourite non-corporate record store, Killjoy Records, the one that usually carries the rarest selection, to see if they can track it down for him.

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

NINE

 

It has grown dark outside and still Brian hasn't returned. Gerard is wide awake so he gathers his courage and mentally prepares to send himself back to the spectral plane in search of the record company's secrets.

Where his list of magic phone numbers previously had three entries there is now a scorch mark and the two remaining valid numbers. Gerard picks one at random and hopes it takes him somewhere near where he needs to be.

After the walls of Brian's office dematerialise and are replaced by the blasted landscape of the spectral plane, he shakes his head at how this craziness has become reality.

Time seems to operate differently here and, after what seems like no time at all, he stands at the front doors of the record company's headquarters. His eyes brighten as he sees Mikey behind the glass doors and he makes his way towards him.

"Welcome to BLInd Records. Please follow me," Mikey says in a monotone.

Up close, Gerard can see that Mikey's features are perfectly blank and inscrutable.

He follows Mikey through long corridors until they reach an office. Once inside, Mikey flings the door shut and wedges his back against it. His face is contorted as if he's struggling to fight off an invisible foe.

"Gee, I haven't much time. I can't hold them off for long," Mikey says.

"Hold what off? Are you ok?"

"The company owns my soul. They can make me do things, things I don't want to do," he cries then quietly, as if confessing: "They want me to kill you Gee. I'm so sorry. I'm doing everything I can not do it. You have to believe me!"

"I do Mikey, I know you wouldn't hurt me." Gee reaches out a hand to comfort Mikey, forgetting that he can't physically touch him.

Mikey recoils yelling "Stay back! The evidence you need is locked away in the library. I can give you a headstart but I can't fight them off for long. Go!"

Gerard hates to leave Mikey writhing in apparent agony but he opens the door and runs as fast as he can away from the room. Skidding around a corner he comes to a door with a Keep Out sign, which seems as good a place as any to start looking.

In the centre of the room under a glass case is a small electronic device attached to earphones. He recognises it as the Walkman that Frank had told him about. It would be good to have the Walkman but he's going to need more proof. He's going to need to find the library. Looking around to check no one is watching, Gerard smashes the glass and grabs the Walkman before running out of the room.

The building is suspiciously quiet as he ducks down halls looking for the library.

Panting, he bursts into what seems to be a reception area leading to a large office and immediately stops. He can hear a voice from the other side of the office door. It sounds like chanting. Mustering all his resolve he creeps forward to peek through one of the high round windows in the office door.

Sitting at an ornately carved desk is what looks like an 18th century necromancer with headphones around his neck. He's a bald man in an intricately patterned grey suit with lace dripping from the cuffs, making elegant hand movements in the air. The chanting sounds ominous, arcane. The only words Gerard can pick out are his name and Mikey's. With difficulty he drags himself away from the hypnotic sound and creeps back into the corridor.

Then it hits him. He's seen this man before. He's Mr Korse, the CEO of the record company, its public face, though that face is normally a little less necrotic in the real world. Gerard chokes down a hysterical laugh: his suspicion that pop music is evil has been proven right.

As if by magic the next turn he takes leads to an inconspicuous door and something in his gut tells him to open it. The room is lined with shelves containing numerous crumbling volumes. They seem to go on for miles. There is a dark wooden table in the centre of the room, and in the middle of the table a pristine white document with Frank's name on it.

Gerard recognises it as Frank's whistle-blowing report. He also knows it stinks of being a trap. But what choice does he have? He barely knows the rules of this netherworld. Cautiously, Gerard approaches the table and lifts the report. It's the only clean thing in a world filled with soot-covered debris.

Immediately the walls begin to shimmer and shift and Gerard is left outside the company headquarters. The road has turned into a bridge over a murky, seemingly endless ocean and in front of him, at the end of the road, is a phonebooth. Gerard knows what he has to do. Tucking the report inside his shirt he starts running, faster than he ever has before, his lungs burning with the acrid air.

The water churns and clouds of gritty smoke swirl around him making it hard to see. The road becomes narrower as he approaches the phone, great chunks of it splintering under his feet.

He's almost there, only yards from the phone when a figure appears in front of him. He catches sight of a gas mask and reels out of its outstretched hands.

Falling through smoke, he's engulfed in water. The shock of the impact knocks the remaining breath from his lungs as he feels the report and the Walkman slip from his grasp and float away.


	4. The Ghastly Ordeal of Gerard Way (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Now at midnight all the agents and super-human crew Go out and round up everyone That knows more than they do"_ – My Chemical Romance, **Desolation Row**

 

 

 

**U.S.A, 1980s in an alternate timeline**

Gerard looked up from behind his desk when he heard a knock at his office door. If you could even call it an office. Strictly speaking it was the basement of a launderette but those days - and with the kind of off-the-record business Gerard conducted - it was as classy a place as he was going to get.

Brian's head peaked around the partially opened door.

"I've got a live one for you," he said.

"Did he get the password right?" Gerard asked.

"Well," Brian hemmed, "close enough."

"Brian," Gerard sighed in exasperation, "We've got security protocols for a reason. It's both our asses on the line here. And _you_ were the one who insisted on a password. What's the point-"

Brian cut him off. "When have I ever steered you wrong, oh one of little faith? I've gotta good feeling about this one. I'll vouch for him if it makes you feel any better."

"You know him?" Gerard asked.

"Nah. Let's just say I know his type. It's pretty much the same type as the kind of kid I'd let run an illegal music shop from the basement of my launderette." Brian gave him a pointed look.

"Point taken, I surrender." Gerard held up his hands in appeasement. "Let the kid in."

Brian nodded in acknowledgement. "Oh, and you got a package." He tossed a dirty, brown, padded envelope onto Gerard's desk.

Gerard heard Brian's boots clunk up the stairs before a different set skipped back down, accompanied by whistling.

Gerard was up from behind his desk and over to the door in a flash.

"Jesus Christ! Are you trying to get us all killed?" He grabbed the shoulder of his visitor, hauled him through the door and slammed it shut. "It's five years mandatory minimum for whistling in public!"

The kid looked unfazed.

Gerard eyed him warily. He was short, tanned and wearing the latest corporation-sanctioned fashion but the tells were there if you knew where to look for them. Gerard clocked the tiny hint of tattoos peeking out from his cuffs, the hi-top sneakers, the way he popped his collar. They told him that this kid was not a corporate drone, mindlessly eating up the substanceless pap that the media called "music" - and the only variety that the government allowed to exist. No, this kid knew where to search out the highly illegal real stuff - the few tapes and even fewer records that survived the government purges and, once in a while, the rare pleasure of a live performance.

The kid stuck out his hand.

"The name's Pete. And surely the cops have better things to do than book me for a musical misdemeanour. It's not like I was playing a fucking guitar, god forbid."

Gerard detected a non-native accent. "You're not from New York, are you?"

"Nah, Chicago, why?"

"Because, Pete, they may be more lenient in Chicago but here, less than eight blocks from BLInd headquarters, the leading lobbyists for anti-music laws, nothing will get you locked up faster. So don't bring your brand of trouble to my doorstep."

"I thought you guys had the Watchmen looking out for you?" Pete asked.

"There's only so much they can do. They're more like a symbol of justice than a guarantor of your civil rights. You think they have time to defend idiots like you who get caught whistling or singing in the street?"

"Hey, man, I thought you were cool," Pete said defensively. "They say you're the one to see about putting on a gig."

"Who says that?" Gerard demanded.

"People, via other people, via a fuck-ton of deadends and misinformation and red herrings. Believe me, I've spent a long time trying to track you down."

The kid - Pete's - nonchalant demeanour slipped and Gerard detected a steely resolve peeking through.

"A gig," Gerard said, "that's a lot to fucking ask, you know? The cops are getting worse. And if you get arrested, there's no trial, no jail, no right to fucking due process, you just disappear. My brother Mikey learned that the hard way."

"I know it's a lot to ask," Pete said. "I know you don't know me. And I can't even pay you - we spent all our money getting to New York without the authorities knowing. But you're the only one who can do it."

Pete stepped back out the door and beckoned to someone Gerard couldn't quite see. A child with a tousled mop of blonde hair and huge eyes shuffled through the door. Pete swept the child up and into his arms and said over the top of his head: "This is Bronx, my son. He's seven years old and he's never properly heard live music. Please. In this shitty broken version of a world, please help me give him that much."

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

Gerard studied Patrick from behind his desk. He was supposed to be making phone calls, trying to call in favours, make some deals and track down everything they'd need for a concert.

Pete had left them to it - Gerard supposed he was off somewhere looking after his kid - and left Patrick to help out.

He looked so young. Gerard nervously watched Patrick admire his rarest merchandise: nearly half a shelf's worth of vinyl, still intact enough to play, not that it was easy to find a record player these days. Patrick's fingers hovered near one of the albums but he didn't touch it. Instead, he turned to Gerard with shining eyes and said: "I've never seen one for real before. Just heard stories, you know?"

Gerard's wariness melted away. He was won over by the kid's honesty and innocence. He knew he'd risk it all to get him and Pete on stage.

"You had tapes though, right? Back home?" he asked.

"Yeah," Patrick sighed. "Between the four of us we had a few. Prince, Bowie, Sinatra, Sex Pistols, Green Day and a couple more. Damn near wore them out. Had to leave them behind, obviously. It's bad enough travelling without a permit but with contraband too ..."

"Is that how you learned to play? By listening to the tapes?"

"Pretty much," Patrick confirmed. "I used to drive out to the middle of nowhere, miles from the city, and sing. The first time I did it, I felt like an idiot, and probably sounded like a dying dog. But then it became the only thing I wanted to do."

"What about the others. Can they play?" Gerard asked, trying to figure out what equipment they'd need. It wasn't as if they could go to a music store, buy a guitar and amp and throw them in the back of a car.

"Get Andy anything he can hit and he'll be fine. Joe will need a guitar. He had an acoustic he built himself. We both learned on it. And I was teaching Pete an approximation of bass, but he's never held a real one. We'll need any practice time you can get us."

"That might be a problem," Gerard grimaced. "I'm pretty sure I can get my hands on all the gear you need, mics and amps as well. I'll have to go through a lot of different sources so it's not so obvious what we're doing. There's an abandoned warehouse under the interstate that will be secluded enough for the concert itself. But each time we go there it increases the risk of being seen by the aero-drones."

"We'll make it work," Patrick said. "It's too important to fuck up."

Gerard felt as if the weight of the undertaking had just hit Patrick. He had an idea. "You wanna hear something new?"

"Like, new government sanctioned shit?" He frowned. The only music that could be legally recorded and sold was the saccharine pop that BLInd pumped out. It was created by computer programmes to appeal to target demographics, laced with hypnotic suggestions to create blind followers of mass consumerism, and "sung" by blank-faced meat puppets.

"Hell no," said Gerard, grinning. "This is _real_ music. There's this guy who has "liberated" some of BLInd's recording equipment. Fuck knows how. He operates out of a van, stays on the move. I can't tell you his name because I don't know it. He manages to record a few tapes now and then. And this," he brandished a small cassette box, "arrived this morning."

Gerard crossed his office and shoved piles of old newspapers, magazines and other detritus out of the way to uncover a hatch in the floor. He removed it to reveal a strongbox and opened that to reveal a small portable cassette player, which he placed on the desk.

He beckoned to Patrick to come closer towards the player's tiny speaker and inserted the tape.

Gerard said: "I've never heard this before." He knew Patrick understood how rare that was.

Tinny guitar sounds started up followed by an unfortunate squall of feedback before frantic drums and vocals kicked in. It was raw, partially out of tune, the tinny speakers not helping, but the energy and intensity was unmistakable. This was music as an expression of the band's souls, not in service of some soulless corporation.

One refrain was clear through the distortion of the lo-fi recording: "I am not afraid to keep on living / I am not afraid to walk this world alone".

Gerard caught Patrick's eye and they both revelled in sharing such a special moment.

The tape player stuttered and whirred, still turning but only churning out fragments of sound. Gerard gently removed the tape and frantically scanned the label to see if it was supposed to contain more than one song.

The label was partially obscured. He could just about make out 'After-Lives: The First ~~dbgvkjgvrk~~ Mystery' by The Black Parade and space for four track names, although they were blank. He had never heard of The Black Parade, though that meant little. It was safer for bands to use a different alias each time they played. That reminded him.

"Patrick," he said. "What do you want your band to be called?"

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard had talked to Travis about mics, Brendon about guitars and Spencer about drums. LynZ had a beat on some amps, Worm could take care of lights, a soundboard and miscellaneous rigging, and generators were William Beckett's specialty. For security on the night he could count on the crew who usually ran the door at Ryan Ross's speakeasy, since Tuesday was their night off.

That only left a bass. They were notoriously difficult to find, more-so even than six-strings, but Gerard's contact Gabe knew a guy who knew a girl who knew ... someone. It was more degrees of trust than Gerard liked but there was no other option.

He sat back on his heels and looked at his handiwork. He added a final splash of red to the Fall Out Boy banner he was painting.

All he had to do now was contact Dr Death Defying to get the word out to the musical underground about the concert, which was easier said than done.

A knock at his office door alerted him to Patrick's presence.

"Come in," he yelled and waited for the door to be closed again.

"Hey Gerard. The guys are really psyched. We can't wait!"

"Me too," Gerard replied. "It'll be great to meet the other two. I don't like making deals with people I haven't met face to face. But it's just too risky to have all of you traipsing in and out of here as a group. Especially when there's a kid involved. Where's his mother in all of this?"

"She's not with us," Patrick replied tersely, and Gerard let the subject drop.

"So how's the organising going?" Patrick asked. "What can I do to help?"

Gerard smiled, excited at the prospect of hearing a live band. "We're all set for Tuesday. Just need to get the word out on the airwaves. Don't suppose you've got an in with Dr Death Defying?"

"Aw man, I owe Pete a guitar pick now," Patrick whined. At the sight of Gerard's confused face he continued. "I was sure _you_ were the good doctor, he bet me you weren't and, well, I lost."

"Even I'm not crazy enough to flout the airwave laws like Dr D does. I gotta couple of ideas about how to get to him but it's going to take all my charm and more than a few favours."

"Wait, so it's that easy? You got a concert, just like that?" Patrick shoved some of Gerard's piles of music-related paraphernalia off the ratty old sofa and all but collapsed onto it. "You mean we're really doing this, in two days' time?"

Gerard smiled at him. "It's happening all right, but it wasn't exactly a cakewalk. You wouldn't believe the favours I've had to call in and, worse, the ones I've racked up for the future."

Patrick flapped his hands around aimlessly. "But you don't even know us. We could be anyone. I don't want to think about the shit they'll do to you if the cops find out."

Gerard's expression hardened. "I'm taking a big chance, yeah, but I gotta good feeling about you and Pete, and Brian does too. I've been as cautious as I can be with the planning, after that, the risk is worth it. I mean, it's been months since anyone else was brave enough to play live. Do _you_ know what you're getting yourself into?"

"I do, and the others, Pete - I'm not so sure. He just wants to give his son this. But what happens if he gets caught and he's not around to look after the kid?"

"Have you been to a legally sanctioned concert?" Gerard asked. He waited for Patrick to shake his head before he continued. "They're the fucking worst. Pretty, blank faces mime to a backing track of dulling, repetitive muzak. It has more in common with a wake than performance art. The people need to see something real, to give them the hope to keep fighting, or passivity will allow BLInd and all the other soul-sucking corporations to turn the world into one big shopping mall. Not on my fucking watch."

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard would swear he could hear the twang of guitars beings tuned to a backing buzz of static electricity, but since the generator hadn't been hooked up yet, it wasn't likely.

He sat back on the dusty wooden pallets that would form the stage area in the warehouse and took in the transformation his posters and banners had wrought. Giant teddy bear and mouse heads alternated with the band's chosen name for the night in a riot of reds and blues. He'd have to destroy it all afterwards, in case it was seen by the wrong eyes, but that wasn't the point.

He ached for the sweet release of a good concert. Just a few more hours and all the worries about getting everything organised and - more importantly - staying off the cops' radar would all be over. Then, Gerard could give himself over to the full body experience of standing in a mass of kindred spirits and letting something beautiful wash over them all.

He hadn't had much of a chance to chat with Joe and Andy but they seemed like solid guys, willing to take a risk for what was important to them. It was a trait he could admire.

"Hey man, how's it going?" Pete edged into Gerard's personal space, almost jittering out of his skin and bringing Gerard back from his reverie.

"Nervous?" he asked Pete.

"Nah. Not at all," he bluffed. "After all, I'm just about to get on stage for the first time, after never having held a bass before, and play for a whole bunch of strangers, all the while expecting the cops to bash the doors down and put me on the wrong side of a police brutality case. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Hey, hey, it's gonna be alright," Gerard said, placing his hands on Pete's shoulders and trying to calm him down. "I've got it all under control. Worm's hooking up the power just now. The audience has started to trickle in so there's no mass movement for the aero-drones to notice. The venue looks kick-ass, even if I do say so myself. We're just waiting for the guitars to arrive and then you guys can practice for a bit before we go live."

"Yo, Gee," the metal panel slid back and Gerard saw Brendon's face. "Heard you might need a couple of these."

The rest of Brendon's body slid through the hatch, a guitar in each hand.

Gerard turned to Pete. "See? It's all coming together."

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard definitely _could_ hear the twanging of guitar strings now, punctuated by the odd muffled drumbeat. Soon, when everything was in the right place, the band would play fast and loud for 30 minutes - no more - and then everyone would disperse. It would take the police around 45 minutes to co-ordinate a response, by which time the warehouse would be empty.

Pete paced in front of the make-shift stage.

"It'll be here," Gerard said.

"Then why isn't it here now?" Pete growled. "We have to go on in 10 minutes and I don't have a fucking bass!"

Honestly, Gerard was worried. Gabe had never not come through for him before. He imagined the cops stopping him for a routine search and finding the contraband jackpot. Or just a plain old-fashioned fender bender. He tried not to let Pete see his worry.

"Relax, I know it's tight but it's gonna be o-"

"COPS!"

The strangled shriek rang out around the warehouse. For a stunned second, everything was still.

Then came the exodus. Footsteps exploded outwards in all directions as everyone scrambled to get out of the building and to their vehicles. And then the cops came surging in, a tide of blue shirts and crash helmets.

Gerard saw Worm practically scoop up Pete and Bronx and usher them through a loose panel at the back of the stage. He saw Andy knocked off the upturned box he was using as a drum stool. He heard the sickening crunches of batons meeting bone.

He saw less and less as smoke canisters filled up the building with noxious fumes and made his eyes water.

Sounds become jumbled and he struggled to distinguish one voice from another.

One word, clear and distinct rose above the mêlée: scarecrow.

There was a zap of electricity and ... nothing.


	5. An Orison of Gerard~451 (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You've got to make a choice / If the music drowns you out / And raise your voice every single time / They try and shut your mouth”_ \- bMy Chemical Romance, Sing

 

 

 

**The 23rd Century**

  


**BLInd appreciates your cooperation, Gerard~451. I am archivist Morrison. Everything you say will be recorded onto this egg-shaped device. It is called an orison.**

Since you have me handcuffed and detained here, my "cooperation" isn't exactly voluntary.

 

**This is not your trial. Merely a recording of the truth. These are your last words. If I might give you a little advice: use them wisely. Tell me about your status.**

I was a model 451 fast food server at a diner in Battery City. I lived in the server tanks and spent 20 hours a day attending to the needs of the city's inhabitants. All day long I took orders from city workers for meat-flavoured protein substitute, potato-flavoured starch substitute and BLInd branded soft drinks. I cleaned up their mess. I smiled at their disdain, or worse, their refusal to acknowledge that I was a person.

 

**But fabricants are not legally considered to be people, are they?**

Tell that to my mind, my heart. We feel the same things you feel but are forbidden from revealing so. I had one ally at the diner, Mikey~939. I knew he had illegal feelings too. We used to lie awake in the tanks and dream about a life outside the diner. He only had 12 more years to go before ascension.

 

**And what is ascension?**

It was our one chance at freedom. If we had a perfect service record at the diner after 25 years we would be set free, given identities and allowed to live as people.

 

**Was this your first transgression?**

You call it a transgression; I call it escape from enslavement.

The first time, Mikey~939 woke me up from my induced sleep. I don't know how he awoke himself, but it wasn't the first time for him. He beckoned me to be quiet then led me out of the tank and into the diner. He showed me a secret room beside the boss's office. It wasn't locked, because servers never disobeyed, until now. The room was full of small objects. We guessed they had been left behind by customers. As fabricants we were forbidden to own property, so we treated this room like our own personal storage facility.

We went there many times. One night, I pressed a button on an unfamiliar electronic device. A voice sputtered into life and a grainy picture was projected onto the wall. I should have tried to shut it off immediately, in case the voice awoke the boss, but Mikey~939 and I were entranced.

The film contained one scene which we watched over and over again. A dark-haired man was locked in a prison cell. Impotent rage flashed in his eyes as he shook at the bars of his cell and shouted: "You. Cannot. Control. Me!"

It seemed to spark something in Mikey~939 and, after that, he began taking bigger and bigger risks, as if his eyes had been opened to the possibility of rebellion.

 

**And that is when he was terminated?**

That is when he was murdered. During our morning inspection the boss found a guitar pick that Mikey~939 had found in the store room and sewn into the hem of his uniform. The offence was punishable by 10 years extra service but, on being discovered, Mikey~939 ran. He made it far as ten feet from the door before the BLInd control collar activated and severed his carotid artery.

 

**And how did this make you feel?**

You know servers are not allowed to show emotion. I did my best to hide my shock, my grief. I don't know how well I succeeded.

 

**Your own transgression happened soon after, did it not?**

That very night. I lay awake in the tank and tried not to hate all the other servers who seemed to barely register Mikey~939's death.

I heard footsteps outside the tank and froze, trying to feign sleep. A hand clamped over my mouth and I tried to scream, to bite it. I felt hair brush against the side of my face and warmth bloom across my ear as an unfamiliar voice said: "Ssh. I'm not here to hurt you. Come with me and you can avoid Mikey~939's fate."

I had little to lose. I nodded my acquiescence and allowed the stranger to tug me from my bunk. He wrapped a blanket around me and led me down a corridor I had never used before.

It wasn't until we stopped, some distance away from the diner that I was able to look at him and process what was happening.

He was short, with scraggly long hair. His face was not perfectly symmetrical like that of a fabricant. He was a pureblood. But he was ... pretty.

He caught me staring.

"I'll explain everything later," he said. First we have to get somewhere safe.

 

**Where did he take you?**

It was a safehouse in the sprawl - the dirty, over-populated part of the city where the government's dirty secrets are swept under a carpet of poverty. If you think I'm giving away the exact location then you really have underestimated me.

He took me to a room and told me it was mine. It was small by pureblood standards but to me, who had owned nothing, who had been stashed on a shelf in the tank to sleep, it was a palace.

"Get dressed," he said, pointing to a closet and a sink with a mirror above it. "Try not to look so obviously like a fabricant."

As I pulled unfamiliar garments over my limbs and tried to brush my hair out of its hygienic server's cut and over my face, he talked.

He told me about a group of abolitionists who fought for the rights of fabricants, who objected to us being held in servitude. I tried to tell him that we were free after 25 years but he silenced me and said that did not matter.

He told me that his group had been watching the diner and had seen that Mikey~939 and I had behaved differently. They had hacked into the diner's security feed and seen us waken at night. He intimated that I might be useful to their cause, but did not elaborate.

As I attempted to alter my appearance, I stared into the mirror. They were also forbidden to fabricants. I took in my pale skin and dark hair. I tried to scrunch my face up in a facsimile of emotion, but I was not used to such behaviour.

I dared a question: "What's your name?"

He seemed taken aback: "I'm sorry. I've been watching you for so long I feel like we know each other. I'm Frank."

He extended a hand to shake. I had seen other purebloods do this at the diner. I grasped his hand and marvelled at the warmth, the solidity, the texture of calluses.

I wanted to smile for Frank. To show him how grateful I was that he had taken me from that place. I could feel the muscles in my cheeks tighten and my eyes narrow.

He looked puzzled for a second then realisation seemed to dawn. Gently, he took my shoulders and guided me so that I faced the mirror and he stood behind, right up against me. He hesitated with his hands inches from my face.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"No," I said, with no idea to what he was referring.

He placed his hands on my face and urged the corners of my mouth upwards. I watched as my reflection's face moved but my expression remained blank. I tried with all my effort to inflect my expression with the gratitude I felt. There. Something flickered in my eyes.

In that moment I realised that I looked almost exactly like the character from the film Mikey~939 and I had seen.

 

**Were you not worried about contravening so many laws?**

Honestly, no. I was so caught up in experiencing new things I gave very little thought to my precarious situation and for what purpose Frank had taken me.

He asked me if there was anything he could give me. I told him about the film I'd seen in the storeroom. He said it sounded familiar and began to tap some commands into the large holoscreen on the wall.

"Is this it?" he asked, as the opening titles scrolled and the incarcerated man appeared. "It's called "The Ghastly Ordeal of Gerard Way."

"This is it!" I cried, and we sat down to watch it.

My first tear rolled down my cheek as I watched the story of a man who tried to do the right thing beaten down and betrayed. Just after one of his contacts backstabbed him, he was captured by the police and tasered into unconsciousness. As the character cried out, the film shuddered to a halt.

Frank jumped up and tapped more commands into the screen.

"There's a glitch," he said. "The film ends here."

Just then, a pounding started on the door.

Frank turned to me, looking more serious than I'd seen him, and said: "There are some things I haven't told you."


	6. Everything After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Everybody wants to change the world / But no one, no one wants to die”_ \- **My Chemical Romance, Na Na Na**

 

 

 

Motorbaby picked through the latest haul she and her gang of Zonerunners had taken from some other desert rats. It wasn't exactly shiny. She would have given her left boot for something edible that didn't taste of tin can or worse.

She spread the meager loot across the floor of the abandoned bank they were using as base camp. She liked to think that seeing the marble columns and reinforced sandstone walls now half-sunk under the always-encroaching desert was poetic or some shit. Not that she had time for poetic thoughts.

Barb Star was always getting on her case for not being focussed enough. She was plenty focussed. As she liked to remind Barbed, it was her who took out those Dracs that tried to ambush them last week. Solo.

Motorbaby shuddered at the thought. The Dracs were getting closer all the time. It was like they knew how the Zonerunners thought before they did.

"Find anything useful?" she heard Barb holler through the hole in the wall that used to be a door.

"Nah," Motorbaby shot back, rifling through the half-spent laser cartridges and BLInd mood patches. She shuddered at the thought of a personality solely comprised of synthetic drugs and blind obedience.

Then her hand struck something smooth and unfamiliar. Carefully lifting the egg-shaped object she noticed how heavy it was in her hand. There was no detectable catch or lock or switch.

It began to faintly hum and vibrate. Shocked, Motorbaby dropped it to the floor where it rolled down an incline to stop against a table leg. There was a flicker of light emanating from the more rounded end.

Motorbaby inched closed in case it was a new BLInd weapon, but it didn't seem like any grenade or bomb she'd ever dealt with. A beam of light fanned outwards from the egg and a semi-transparent image appeared.

It was a man. He was pretty with short blonde hair and a small snub nose. She thought his eyes looked familiar.

A voice crackled into life and it took her a few moments to realise it was the man speaking.

"I am Gerard~451. This is my declaration."

Motorbaby watched, entranced. She could tell that this man was from a time long before hers, long before the rise and fall of Battery City and the new frontier of the Zones. But the words he spoke made perfect sense. And something about his name was familiar.

A scuffle from outside made Motorbaby start and she dropped the egg. It immediately went silent. She pressed and prodded at it but the light and the voice did not come back.

"'baby," Barb yelled. "I'm about the execute the hostage. Or would you rather do the honours?"

Motorbaby abandoned the pitiful loot and joined her outside. Barb had one of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W/S on his knees, holding him by the hair. This one looked different. He was wearing a grey coat that must have been sweltering in the radiating heat.

"Let me have a talk with him first," she said. "Find out what he knows."

Barb started to protest before thinking better of it. She hauled the man inside and tossed him onto the floor face first, grinding a boot into the back of his bald head.

"Leave us for a bit, yeah?" Motorbaby said.

Barb didn't move.

Motorbaby rolled her eyes and drew her laser pistol, which she trained on the prostrate man.

"Just go. If he moves I'll light 'im up."

Barb gave him one last kick before moving to stand outside the door.

"Get up." Motorbaby growled.

The man, with great effort, struggled to his feet.

"I know you," said Motorbaby incredulously. "I've seen the paintings made by the first 'runners. You're Korpse."

"Korse," he gritted out.

"I knew that," she said, smirking. "Just making sure it was you. You're not a BLInd drone like the others. You have power."

He said nothing.

"But why are you so far out here without protection?" she mused.

He gave her a pointed look and she shrugged: "Oh yeah. You had plenty protection until I put holes in them."

"You won't get away with this," Korse growled. "However far you run, we'll come after you."

"That's why I'm not running," she said, walking over to the makeshift table. She overturned a plastic crate and motioned with the pistol for Korse to sit. He grudgingly followed. Motorbaby sat opposite and laid her gun on the table.

"This cat and mouse shit has been going on for way too long. All my life all I've heard about is how there are always forces of oppression and resistance. I was brought up to fight for what I believe in, to destroy my enemies. But I've figured something out.

“We don't need you, but you need us. You and all the other tyrants need someone like us to be a credible threat so that the trouble-fearing masses will let you run the show under the pretence of keeping them safe.

“But I'm flipping the script. There's going to be no more “us” and “them”. We're in this together, baby. All the way to the end.

“I'm Motorbaby, aka Grace Ieroway.” She stuck out a hand for him to shake.

“Now talk."


	7. An Orison of Gerard~451 (Part 2)

 

 

 

"Come with me," Frank said, his hand outstretched.

I saw no reason not to follow him and we escaped through the window just as the door to the room was bashed in.

 

**And then what happened?**

I followed Frank down a series of twisting and turning alleyways. We went up levels and down staircases. I have no idea how spatial relations work in the Sprawl but it worked in our favour and we lost our tail.

We ended up in an underground room that looked like something out of the 20th century.

There was an imposing Nordic-looking man there. Frank introduced him as Bob Bryar, military commander of the resistance.

Bob looked me over and said to Frank: "I think it's time we tell him everything."

I was so confused by this point. What more was there to know? I had been rescued (or kidnapped, depending on your point of view) from corporate servitude and made aware of a resistance movement.

Frank saw the look of confusion on my face and said: "Follow me. It's best you see this for yourself."

 

**And what did you see?**

I'm just getting to that. Invested in the story, are you?

We travelled by underground tunnel to a different part of the Sprawl. Frank led me upwards through a maintenance hatch and we emerged into what seemed to be a massive factory.

Everywhere I turned there were piles of limbs, torsos, hands, feet. The place had the feel of a hospital, but there were no doctors, no patients. We stuck to the shadows as Frank led me past doors with different numbers on them. My brain worked double-time to put it all together, but I didn't _want_ to know what he was trying to tell me.

We passed a door with ~451 inscribed on it.

Frank stopped me next to it and grabbed my shoulders.

"This is going to be difficult to see," he said. "But I think you deserve to know the truth."

He pushed the door open and stepped aside. I peered in and suddenly everything went fuzzy. And then it went black.

 

**You fainted? What happened?**

Yes. When I came to we were back in the underground tunnels. I heard footsteps overhead in the factory, but Frank had gotten us out in time.

I gaped at him in horror.

"They ... they ..." I stuttered. "They were _me_."

"Yes," said Frank. "They are the parts they use to build all the Gerards. They get those parts from the previous Gerards."

"But how?" I asked. "They get them after the fabricant has been set free and lived their life as a reward for service?"

"There is no freedom. The parts are recycled immediately into new workers, their memories wiped. Those that cannot be re-used are pulped and turned into protein substitute."

I shut down at this point. It was too horrible to comprehend. I numbly followed Frank back to the resistance's quarters and asked to go to sleep. They pointed out my bed and I lay down.

I lay there for a day, refusing water, food and conversation. Even Frank's attempts to comfort me failed.

The whole of my life had been a lie.

 

**And then you began to commit terrorist acts?**

No. Not then. I needed to know more, about myself, about the world.

One day I saw Frank looking at me in the mirror with wonder and all sorts of things came loose inside me. I wanted to experience everything I had seen the purebloods do or talk about.

I strode over to him with a purpose and placed my hands on either side of his face. He looked surprised and a strange noise bubbled up from inside me. It stopped me short, and I looked at him, horrified. I had never laughed before. He took in my shocked expression and started to laugh, too. I made the noise again and we both doubled over in my first ever giggle fit.

I caught his eye again and realised he was looking at me with awe. I wanted to experience everything, and I wanted to do it with him.

I was eager to get my hands on him again, to feel the rough warmth of his skin against the cool semi-plasticity of mine.

 

**Is this really what you want to be recorded for posterity?**

Hell yes! What better display of my humanity? Am I making you blush, archivist?

 

**I am impartial.**

We both know that's not entirely true.

Frank was reluctant at first. He seemed torn between denying me nothing and sticking to some prescribed plan of what we should do and talk about.

I trailed my fingers down the side of his face and revelled in the feel of bone under skin, and soft hair at his temples.

He stilled and seemed to wait for me to figure out what I was doing.

Carefully, I brought our faces together and lined up our mouths. Again, I had seen people kiss but never done it myself. We were so close that we were breathing into each other's mouths.

I detected a hitch in his breathing and closed the distance. His lips were soft as I pressed mine against his. The sensation was more than I expected. As well as pressure, I felt a tingle light up my nerves and travel downwards.

I pulled back, stunned. Frank looked worried.

"Are you ok?" he asked. "Is this what you want?"

"I," I hesitated. "I want everything."

"You don't owe me anything," he said, turning away. "I don't need to be thanked."

I held him firm.

"That's not what this is about," I tried to explain. "I feel like I know you, even though we've only just met. I want this. I want you."

Frank seemed to give in. He led me to the roll of bedding on the floor and guided me down.

I immediately pulled him to me and began frantically mouthing at his lips. He pulled back and I wondered what I had done wrong.

"Let me," he said. "If you want me to."

I nodded then lay back.

Frank took over. He caressed every inch of me. He removed my outer clothing and kissed down my neck, ran his fingers through my hair, sucked at the tips of my fingers. My hands and arms, strong back and well-muscled legs, which had been created for labour in service of others, came alive under a new purpose: pleasure.

He licked my nipples and I moaned, prompting him to focus his attention there while I writhed in bliss.

I tugged at his shirt and he removed his clothing. The press of his skin on mine was a revelation. I didn't know how purebloods could bear to remain clothed when they could have this.

He rolled to my side and the loss of contact felt like a bereavement.

Then he slid a hand down from my sternum to my hip and slowly began to ease down my shorts. Fireworks sparked inside me as my pleasure built. Frank's hand roamed over the smooth flesh between my legs and over my entrance.

He pulled back his hand as if he had been burned.

I looked at him in confusion.

"Did I do it wrong?" I asked.

"Not you," he said, shaking his head. "Is this what all fabricants have between their legs?"

"Yes?" I replied. "Of course. We are fabricated to serve. We are all cast from the same mould, whether destined for a diner or for a sex café. There are modified versions but they cost extra."

Frank looked at me as if I was a stranger.

"I thought you knew about fabricants," I said.

"So did I," said Frank. "It seems we have a lot more to learn. You seemed to be enjoying yourself. I have to know: was that real or just for my benefit?"

"Frank," I sighed. "It was very real. Please don't stop."

Frank looked thoughtful: "I'd bet that BLInd don't know you can experience sexual pleasure. That's one more piece of evidence of your humanity."

 

**What could you hope to achieve by pretending to have human emotions that no fabricants are built to feel? Did you hope to gain his sympathy?**

So you think I was faking? Shows how much you know, archivist.

After Frank and I resumed our exploration of my body's capacity for pleasure we lay sated.

I had been turning over everything in my mind. I knew what had to be done.

 

**What did you do?**

You know what I did. I would not be here if I hadn't done it. I wrote 'Danger Days', a manifesto, a call to arms for all the lost souls to fight against oppression, tyranny, the soul-crushing mundanity of consumerism, the system, the status quo.

I read that manifesto while the rebel armies took to the streets and made confetti out of innocent bystanders. I saw Frank fall in the struggle. He gave his life for our cause.

 

**And you know your punishment.**

Yes. But do you know yours? I am to be ended, destroyed. You have to keep on "living" within these narrow confines. You think you chose this life, archivist? It was chosen for you. Every decision you make, every thought in your head is controlled by the state. You think about rebelling? That's them too. Do you want to know who is behind the rebels? Your boss. Or your boss' boss' boss' boss' boss. The same forces that employ you to sit here and sentence me are the ones who organised the act of dissent in which I partook. There is nothing else.

You and I are so much alike, caught forever in a battle, always fated to be opposites. Without me you do not exist, and it is the same for me.

 

**Then what could you possibly hope to achieve?**

My words cannot change my situation but they may inspire others.

 

**But you will die.**

You fail to understand, Archivist Morrison. Though I will be no more, 'Danger Days' will live on and the fight will continue to be fought. That is as much as I can hope for. I have nothing more to say.

 

**Then we will execute your sentence. You are permitted one final request.**

I would like only to finish watching the film I first saw when I was a fabricant who knew nothing of the outside world, 'The Ghastly Ordeal of Gerard Way'.


	8. The Ghastly Ordeal of Gerard Way (Part 2)

 

 

 

Gerard was dimly aware of cold from a hard surface seeping into his bones. He tried to open his eyes but they were gummy and wouldn't open. He tried to move a hand, a leg, anything, but waves of pain overtook him. Then unconsciousness again.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

A loud clang awoke him and he heard mumbling. This time, instead of trying to move he lay as still as possible and tried to figure out where he was, what had happened.

He heard his own breath rattling wheezily in his throat. The god-awful smell of faeces and human fluids reached his nose and he couldn't help emitting a painful groan.

The noises around him stopped momentarily, then heavy footsteps came closer to his head.

"Cinderella's finally waking up," a gruff voice said.

"You mean Sleeping Beauty," corrected another, indistinguishable voice.

"Whatever," said the first. "Thought he'd never come around. Been two fucking weeks."

"The boss will want to know," said voice two. "Get him cleaned up and then we'll take him to interrogation."

More footsteps and then Gerard was gasping for air as freezing, dirty water sluiced over him. He coughed and spluttered, unable to get away from the avalanche, too weak to turn over.

The water ran over his eyes and he managed to squint them open. After the first painful burst of fluorescent lights he managed to focus on a figure in a prison guard uniform before everything went dark again.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Pain bloomed across his cheek and his head was wrenched to the side. He was sitting. He didn't fall off the chair, though, and felt straps around his chest holding him up. He gave a painful, experimental wriggle and felt straps around his wrists and ankles, too.

"Get the boss. He's awake," a familiarly gruff voice said.

Gerard concentrated on trying to breathe through the pain that was waking up all though his body. He tried to open his eyes and found that it was bearable, if not exactly easy.

He was in a cell. Blank white walls gave off a blinding sheen. A metal table and two chairs, including the one he sat on, looked medically sterile. There was a small intercom on the wall, a camera in one corner, a door and nothing else.

In front of him stood a guard in a white coat. The logo on his lapel said BLInd Correctional Facility. Gerard hadn't heard of it, but the fact that it was owned by BLInd didn't bode well.

The door slid open and a second guard returned together with a bald man in a grey suit.

"This here is Mr Korse," the guard said. "You better co-operate with him or things will get even worse for you."

Korse waved a hand dismissively at the guards and they reluctantly exited the room.

He produced a plastic cup of water from somewhere and offered it to Gerard, who was now slumped down in the chair, only held upright by the restraints.

"Here," he said. "This will help you talk."

Gerard wanted to struggle against the cool liquid - he knew it might be drugged, but he was so thirsty, his parched and cracked lips traitorously reached out for it. Korse slid some of the soothing liquid down his throat then paused as Gerard spluttered.

Gerard sat back, panting, grateful for the small measure of relief.

Suddenly, Korse crushed the cup in his hand and threw it to the floor.

"I want names," he barked. "Names of all your associates. Everyone involved in that little musical infraction."

Gerard said nothing.

"I advise you not to test me. You will find your stay here a lot more pleasant if you co-operate."

Gerard said nothing.

"But if you choose _not_ to help us with our inquiries, the consequences will be severe."

Gerard remained silent.

"Have it your way. I will question you again and you will tell me everything."

With that Korse made a gesture in the direction of the camera and the door slid open. He left and the two guards marched in. Before the door had closed behind them, one of them lunged at Gerard and, with an almighty swing, hit him under his jaw, snapping his head upwards and backwards, the momentum sending him flying through the air to land on his back, still attached to the chair.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard came to on the floor of his cell. The pain was even worse. He hesitantly tried to move his limbs, to take stock of the damage. His arm was definitely broken, his brain felt like it was leaking out of his skull and, yep, he'd peed his pants.

As he lay there, lacking the strength to even try and find somewhere more comfortable to recover, he thought about how well and truly screwed he was. He knew the risks of flouting the laws prohibiting live music, of course he did. And he was pretty sure he made the right choice in trying to get Pete's band on stage. But he had heard the stories about the people who go into correctional facilities and are never heard from again. He knew there would be no trial, no rehabilitation, no early release for good behaviour.

The best he could hope for was to avoid the beatings and merely be incarcerated. That wasn't exactly something to look forward to.

Lying on the floor, feeling very sorry for himself, a refrain started to take shape in his head.

"I am not afraid to keep on living / I am not afraid to walk this world alone".

Surrendering to the pain, he let darkness pull him under as those haunting words reverberated in his mind.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

The guards quickly establish a routine. A bucket of water sluiced over his head to wake him up each morning. A tray of semi-edible mush was shoved under the door, which he tried his best to choke down, knowing that it would probably be vomited up again soon. Then it was off to that awful white room for endless pain and questions. He didn't answer, at least not coherently. At some point, he broke his silence and started to answer everything in song. They seemed to hate that even more.

If the damage he sustained got past a certain level, they sent him to the infirmary wing to recuperate for a few days. The infirmary was only distinguishable from the regular cell blocks by the IV lines that dangled from the ceilings and the regular intrusion of doctors brandishing huge syringes. The worst beatings were almost a relief, as he knew he would have a few days' reprieve, though the guards were always nastier on his first day back, as if they'd missed him.

Gerard knew he couldn't hold out much longer. It was a race to see whether his body or mind would break first.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

In the middle of the night during one of his infirmary stays, when Gerard had relief from torture if not from its damaging effects, the cell door swung open. Gerard braced himself for a change in routine, but no rough hands grabbed him from his hospital bed. Instead, there was a scuffle, a thud, a moan and the sound of the door clanging shut.

Gerard squinted in the half light. There was a pile of clothes on the floor. Then the pile started to whimper. He carefully slipped off the bed and crept closer.

Gerard reached out a hand and gently touched what he thought might be a shoulder. The figure gave a groan and turned over onto its back. Through a lot of dirt and dried blood Gerard could make out a delicate elfin face. He gasped in surprise as the unknown figure opened his eyes then winked at him, grinning despite his injuries.

"I've been trying to get in the same room as you for week," he said, still smiling.

"You're hurt," Gerard said, trying to help him up.

"Naw. I mean, yeah, I am, but it's not as bad as it looks. I pretended it was worse so they'd send me to the infirmary wing. Didn't think I'd be lucky enough to be thrown in the same cell as you straight away."

"Why?" was all Gerard could say.

"You're going to be part of the rebel alliance," came the answer and, with a straight face, "Help us, Gerard-Way-Kenobi, you're our only hope."

The figure burst into giggles at this and Gerard was sure he was either hallucinating or this was the weirdest interrogation tactic ever.

"Wha- ... How ..." he fumbled for words.

The figure stopped laughing and became serious, taking pity on him.

"I'm Frank," he said, holding out a hand, "I've decided to leave this place, as hospitable as it is. And I'm going to need your help."

Gerard shook his hand warily, both of their injuries and because he was unable to trust the stranger immediately.

Frank seized up and cocked his head.

"They're coming," he said, before scrambling to the hard mattress on the other side of the cell and ushering Gerard to get back onto his. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard fought off the sedatives that coursed through his system, forcing him to rest. There was a hand shaking him gently and he tried to decide whether to hit it away or play possum.

"Come on, wake up. We don't have much time before they come back."

Gerard cracked open his eyes to see Frank hovering above him and made the effort to struggle into wakefulness.

"That's it," Frank said, softly. "We've got a plan to get out of here but we're going to need your help."

"Wait," Gerard said, struggling to sit up. "Who's we? And how do you know who I am?"

"Move over," Frank said. He pulled himself onto Gerard's bed with some difficulty and lay back, panting, against the headboard.

Gerard watched as Frank closed his eyes and tried to collect himself. He was beautiful despite the unwashed hair and damage to his face. He looked familiar but Gerard didn't know why. Gerard shifted uncomfortably as he started having inappropriate stirrings in his pants.

Frank seemed to gather his strength and started talking.

"I live in the city so I've seen you around. I even bought a tape from you once, before you worked out of the launderette. Do you not remember? Anyway, it's not important now. It's hard to tell exactly who is being held here, but I've managed to make contact with some of the scene faces from back in the day, from when listening to music was enough to get you arrested but not 'disappeared'." Frank waited for this to sink in before continuing.

"I found Ray Toro, which is a fucking miracle since he was one of the first to be taken."

"Wow," said Gerard. "He was the first person I ever heard play a real guitar."

He was still skeptical about trusting a bunch of strangers, though.

"We have an in with one of the guards, Bob Bryar. He's solid, I promise. He used to have roots in the underground but somehow ended up working here. I don't know how, but I know he'll do whatever it takes to get out. And there's this kid called Mikey. He's in a bad way but I can tell he's one of us. I'm not leaving without him."

Gerard's heart leapt.

"Mikey Way?" he asked. "Skinny, glasses, dirty blonde hair? Would be about 24 by now? My brother's been missing for years."

"It could be him. It's pretty hard to tell, the state he's in. I don't wanna get your hopes up, man."

For a minute Gerard dared to hope that his brother was alive and within reach. He really hoped Frank's plan would be a good one.

"I think I can get us all out of here," Frank said, "But, as fun as it would be not have daily beatings to put up with, that's not the end goal. I have bigger plans: to stop BLInd forever."

“What about the guys they took the same time as me? And there was a kid?” he asked, terrified of what the answer might be.

“I dunno man, I think they only brought one other person in the same day as you. I don't know who it was, not a kid, though.”

Gerard felt like the answer could have been much worse.

 

 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard mulled over the plan in his mind. It seemed plausible but there was a lot of trust riding on people he didn't know, had never even met. The last time he had gone against his instincts and trusted Gabe's friend of a friend of a friend he ended up on the wrong end of a taser.

There was so much that could go wrong. What if Bob was a double agent? What if Mikey (if it even was him) was too hurt to travel? What if any one of a million things went wrong and they were caught?

And that was just until they got out. Frank's plan didn't stop there. He wanted them to escape only to attract BLInd's attention with a show of defiance: the biggest illegal concert that had been held for decades. Their act of rebellion would call people to arms but it was unlikely that they'd escape unscathed.

He had less than 24 hours before their window to act would disappear. He really had to make up his mind.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard psyched himself up. He really hoped he was doing the right thing but, if there was a chance of seeing Mikey, he had to take it, didn't he?

He looked over at Frank's still form on the bed opposite and hoped to hell that he knew what he was doing.

Frank gave the signal and Gerard started to howl with pain. It was for effect, but the memory of dozens of beatings gave him plenty to work with.

As expected, the doctor on night duty entered the cell and made his way to Gerard's bed. Frank, who should have been out cold due to all the sedative he'd been given, crept out of his bed and grabbed the doctor from behind.

Gerard watched as the doctor's face turned red then blue as he ceased to struggle. He had no qualms about being an accessory to murder. It was his opinion that anyone who infringed upon the Hippocratic Oath to that extent deserved a horrible death.

Step one over with, they cautiously exited the cell's now unlocked door and made their way down the corridor, the light staffing during the night shift and the overcrowding, which led to them sharing a cell, working in their favour as the cumulative moans and nightmare screams of other inmates masked their footsteps.

The plan was to retrieve Ray and meet up with Bob, who would have retrieved Mikey, at the service entrance. According to Frank, if they tripped the alarm system, Bob had bribed one of the other guards to set off all the alarms, masking where they were.

So far, they appeared to be moving under the radar but Gerard didn't expect their luck to hold.

They inched their way along the corridor to the cell block where Ray was being held. Apart from a few instances where they had to press themselves against doorways or around corners, they evaded the guards.

Ray's door swung open after Frank entered the code Bob had procured for them and, after a silent round of nods in lieu of greetings, they continued on their way.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Bob wasn't at the meeting point. Bob was the one who had the code for the exit. And, more importantly for Gerard, Bob was the one who was supposed to have Mikey.

An alarm sounded. Through the din Gerard could barely think.

Panic rose in him and he looked across at Frank, who looked just as worried. He didn't know whether to try to get back to his cell or to brace for a fight he knew he could never win.

"What the fuck should we do?" he yelled at Frank, almost vibrating with the need to be doing something to get out of the way of the guards he knew would be on them in seconds.

"I ... Bob wouldn't ..." Frank started.

Above the noise they could hear footsteps, running. Gerard and Frank backed up against the door and braced themselves. Gerard couldn't help closing his eyes.

A rough hand shoved him out of the way.

"Move!" a voice yelled at him.

As he scrambled to regain his footing he saw Bob enter the access code that stood between them and the outside with one hand, the other arm was holding up a scrawny person.

"Out. Now!" Bob yelled and flung himself and the limp body through the door. The rest of them followed as quickly as they could, Ray shouldering the door closed behind them.

"This way!" Bob yelled and five flailing bodies, hopped up on adrenaline, rounded a sharp corner and dived down into a sewer. Ray replaced the manhole cover above them just in time for them to hear the boots of countless guards march overhead.

In the darkness they worked hard to stifle their ragged breathing.

"Quick, we have to move," Frank said softly. "We can follow this tunnel back to the city."

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

After a few minutes walking in silence the light filtering in from above became a little brighter.

Gerard rounded on Bob, desperate to see the man he was half carrying, half dragging through the filthy water.

"Stop," Gerard said. "I just need to see ..."

He fell to his knees in front of Bob and looked up at the partially-hidden face of the man who he desperately hoped was his brother.

Bob hefted the man's weight and held him in a standing position, angling his face towards Gerard.

Gerard tentatively reached out a hand and gently wiped the lank hair off the man's face. He gasped.

"Mikes," he said, softly, cupping his face. "Mikey, it's me Gee, can you hear me?"

Mikey groaned.

"That's it," Gerard continued, "You're safe now. We're gonna be ok. Mikey?"

Mikey's eyes fluttered open and, with difficulty, he focussed on Gerard's face.

"Gee?" he asked, voice cracking. "That you?"

"Yes," Gerard breathed, the relief overwhelming. "I've got you now."

Bob nodded and passed Mikey over to Gerard who slung a supporting arm around him and shouldered his weight, unwilling to let his brother go now that he'd found him.

"We've got to keep moving," Frank said. "We can be back in the city in an hour. I know a place we can lay low and get patched up before we light those BLInd fuckers up for good."

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard crouched in a shadowy doorway opposite his former home. Frank had tried to persuade him to lay low at the safe house with the others, to get cleaned up and change out of BLInd clothing, but he had to see if anyone was left to save.

He could see that the door had been kicked in and official-looking wanted posters were glued to the remaining shards of wood. There were posters for every member of Fall Out Boy and his contacts except Gabe. Gerard spared a moment to realise that this meant Gabe was in BLInd's custody and to regret that he and Frank hadn't been able to get him out with them.

The whole street was empty. It looked abandoned, so Gerard decided to risk going inside. Hopefully he would be able to salvage something.

No such luck. Everything was in pieces.

There was blood on the floor. Gerard looked down. He was standing in it. He looked around for a source, fearing the worst, and had it confirmed.

Partially hidden under half-demolished furniture lay Brian's body. It was barely recognisable.

He kicked an overturned table in anger as, for the first time, the tears started to fall.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard glared at the image in the bathroom mirror. He looked the same as he had two months ago - minus a few pounds and plus a few bruises - but so much had changed.

He rifled through the medicine cabinet, not knowing what he was looking for until he found it. One of the perks of a launderette was the variety of chemicals on hand.

An hour later he looked again at the man staring back at him. Running a hand through his new, bright, red hair, he was ready to be the man Frank needed him to be.

Climbing back out through the battered down door he paused to say a silent goodbye to Brian. He caught a glimpse of Brian's beloved leather jacket waiting on the coat stand as if it would soon be needed. Snagging it, he shrugged into it, squared his shoulders and strode out of the door.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Backstage at the venue Gerard looked around at his new friends. He couldn't believe it, but between all their contacts they'd managed to pull together enough instruments for a proper concert.

"What's that you're singing?" Frank asked, curiously.

Gerard hadn't even realised he'd been singing out loud. The Black Parade song that had gotten him through some of the worst times in prison had become his own personal mantra.

He started to tell Frank about the mysterious tape and the missing songs and got more and more confused as Frank started to grin wider and wider. Then it clicked.

"It was you?" he asked incredulously.

"Fucking right it was," Frank affirmed.

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Gerard looked out at the full-past-capacity crowd. It was seething with discontent. He looked back at his new comrades. Bob was fondling his drum with reverence. Gerard didn't know how he could have ever doubted him. Ray was running his fingers up and down the frets as if reacquainting himself with an old friend.

He looked over at Frank and was rewarded with a massive grin even as his eyes were full of defiant fury. Something flew through the air, catching his eye and landing at his feet. It was a brown envelope. He bent down to retrieve it and gasped as he felt the familiar weight of a cassette tape inside. Carefully extracting it from the packet he read The Black Parade on the label and the titles of twelve tracks.

He looked over at Frank and shouted "thank you" over the din.

A calm presence at his right-hand side, Mikey sat on the stool they'd managed to find for him, head bowed low over his bass. Gerard's heart swelled with pride at his brother's bravery after all he'd been through.

He knew the BLInd goons were waiting in the wings. He knew that his punishment would be worse than he could imagine. He knew he had to make a stand.

He faced the crowd and began to sing.


	9. After-Lives: The First Gerard Way Mystery (Part 2)

 

 

 

TEN

 

Gerard feels a hand reach down and grab him by the wrist and then he's being pulled up, up, up.

He coughs, splutters and rolls onto his side. The ground is green and warm. He is confused.

He gathers his strength to open his eyes and sees ... grass. He laughs, which brings on another coughing fit, and thinks he's never been so glad to see colour in all his life. Sitting up, he realises he's in a small park a few blocks from his apartment.

He reaches inside his shirt but, no, the report is definitely gone. Frank's dead, Brian's AWOL, Mikey's in the middle of his own struggle and Gerard's being pursued by hell creatures. He doesn't know what else to do except go home. Squelching on sodden shoes he trudges back to his apartment for a time-out and to regroup.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

ELEVEN

 

Mikey tries to be invisible as Korse walks past but he knows it's pointless: the CEO of BLInd Records sees everything on both planes.

"Defy my orders will you?" He growls and Mikey can't suppress a shiver. "I told you to drag Gerard into the river not help him out of it. You were nothing until I found you, made you a star. I own your soul. Literally. Don't forget it. You think you're suffering now? There's a whole lot more I can do to you."

"Please," Mikey whimpers. He knows it's futile but he can't help it. "Please don't take Gerard too."

Korse raises an eyebrow in a sickening smirk. "Oh, but I think I will take him. He has such a rebellious spirit. They always have the most energy. I already have Frank and now you're going to help me take Gerard."

Mikey writhes in unseen bonds as he fights against Korse's will. With a flourish of his sleeve Korse turns on his heel and is gone, leaving Mikey limp on the ground.

  


 

 

~~~~~

 

 

TWELVE

 

"This hallway really needs a clean," Gerard thinks. Then realises that it must be bad if even he notices.

Inside his apartment isn't much better. In addition to the days-old pizza boxes and dirty laundry strewn over every surface, there's an extra layer of griminess he's sure wasn't there before.

An unusual noise draws his attention to the bathroom. It sounds like howling.

Gerard freezes, hoping that whatever's making the noise is something perfectly mundane and ordinary and not the hell beast that tried to drown him.

With shaking hands he tiptoes across the room to reach his phone and get out of there - sure that even the spectral plane would be safer - trying not to alert whatever is in his bathroom to his presence.

He's almost there when the bathroom door swings open and a swirl of charcoal grey dust coalesces into the form of Mikey.

Gerard reels back clutching his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Mikes. Give a guy a heart attack will you?"

"I'm sorry Gee, I really am." Mikey looks even more wan and insubstantial than he did before. "I tried to reach you on the bridge, to warn you, but it was too late. I did pull you out of the river though, so you owe me thanks for that."

"I thought you couldn't touch me?" Gerard asks.

"You were pretty far gone towards death, dude," Mikey says. "Scared me half to death - half to life maybe? Being dead sure screws up poetic metaphors. I was able to touch you for a few seconds, enough to get you out of there."

"Thank you," Gerard breathes. "But how are you here?"

"I called in a favour. It won't last long. Tell me what you've found out about BLInd so far and we can get all Hardy Boys on this case, crack it in double time."

Gerard wants to believe the smile on Mikey's face but he can see what it's costing him.

"Mikey," he starts, softly.

"Don't Gee," Mikey warns. "I'm going to pay for this later. But for now, we need to get working."

Gerard fills Mikey in about the report that Frank wrote and that he lost in the river and sees a lightbulb go on in his eyes.

"Wait here. Stay safe. I have an idea," Mikey says, and before Gerard can reply he's gone, leaving a trail of ash in his place.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

THIRTEEN

 

Gerard calls Brian but there's no answer. After a shower, clean clothes and some food he's pacing his apartment at a loss over what do to. On a whim, he decides to go back to Killjoy Records and see if they've had any luck tracking down 'The Black Parade'.

As he enters the dingy store a hauntingly familiar melody gives him pause. He could swear he's heard it before, if it weren't for the fact that it sounds like nothing he's ever heard. Though devastatingly beautiful, there's a bleakness at its core and it conjures up images of the spectral plane.

All thoughts of 'The Black Parade' gone, he determines to find out what this music is.

"Hey Gee!" Patrick is behind the counter. If there is a band Patrick doesn't know about, it isn't worth knowing, in Gerard's opinion.

"What _is_ this?" Gerard asks.

"I know right?" Patrick beams. Then his face falls. "But I can't sell it to you. It's ultra-rare. We've only got the one copy and it's on hold for someone."

Gerard feels an indescribable loss. "Can you at least tell me who it is so I can spend the rest of my life trying to find another copy?"

"I don't know much, man," Patrick shrugs. "The piece is called 'The Black Parade' and it's by this totally obscure composer. Don't think he did anything else. Let me look up his name."

Patrick turns to check through his orders book and Gerard dares to hope that this is the music he's been looking for.

"That's funny," Patrick says, frowning at the book. "Must be a mistake. It lists you as the orderer and the composer."

"It's a different Gerard," Gerard says, grinning. "And you're totally busted. I thought you weren't supposed to play customer orders in the shop?"

Patrick holds out his hands: "You got me! I'm sorry."

"No worries, man," Gerard says. "I'm just teasing. Everyone should get to hear this. Come 'round one night and I'll play it for you."

"That would be awesome!" Patrick says.

"So, what do I owe you?"

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

FOURTEEN

 

Mikey sends a silent prayer of thanks to Brian for slipping him the phone numbers that allow him to travel between planes. He knows how much trouble Brian's going to be in if Korse finds out. And Korse _always_ finds out.

Now that Gerard has lost Frank's report, the only chance they have is to contact Frank and find out if there's another copy.

It's not going to be easy and the punishment he's already facing will be unbearable. Mikey's got a good working knowledge of the spectral workers at BLInd who'll help him out ... for a price. And what's another pound of flesh at this late stage in the game?

  


 

 

~~~~~

  


 

Brian is his first port of call. He hates to ask for another favour but Schechter really is the best at knowing where everyone is at any minute of the day or night.

There's no answer when Mikey knocks on his door out of courtesy so he abandons politeness and fades through the door instead. The office is empty, which gives Mikey a cold feeling of foreboding where his stomach used to be.

He casts his eyes around the room, not knowing to whom to turn if Brian is out of the picture, when his eyes alight on an old-fashioned rolodex. He flips through the index cards until relief hits when he finds Frank's name and phone number.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

FIFTEEN

 

Gerard clutches the rare vinyl as he makes his way back to his apartment. Despite the calm sunny weather, wind eddies in the street before him, sending up a cloud of dust and a spiral of dry, crackling leaves. He hugs the record to his chest and squints towards the sun, using both as tangible reassurance that he is, in fact, in the corporeal plane.

A public phone rings somewhere to his right and Gerard knows it's for him.

Trepidatiously he answers and waits for the static and howling to die down before he can make out a voice.

"Gee," the voice wheezes. "It's Mikey."

To Gerard he barely sounds human.

"There's a key," Mikey continues, "in Frank's apartment for a security deposit box at the First Central Bank on Oak and Seventh. Find that key, and in that box you'll find another copy of Frank's report. But be careful, yeah?"

"Wha-"

Gerard's words are eaten up by more static and a sick sounding crunch before all he's left with is a dial tone.

  


 

~~~~~

  


Gerard sits down in defeat. After stashing his new record in his own apartment he's been tearing apart Frank's for what feels like hours. There's no sign of the key.

He's searched every hiding spot, obvious and sneaky, and even looked in the toilet cistern (well, that's where he keeps _his_ contraband). He lets a feeling of despondency overcome him as he lies back on the floor and tries not to think about all the people he's letting down. There's Frank, who died because he believed Gerard could help him, and Brian, whose recent disappearance stinks of foul play. Before that there was Mikey, whom he failed to save from being used by the record industry and who is now being used against his will in the afterlife. And then there are all the unsuspecting music consumers who will unknowingly sacrifice a little more of their autonomy to BLInd when the Walkman hits the shelves.

The one place he's tried to not look is Frank's body, still lying peacefully on the bed as if sleeping.

An idea sparks in his mind and he levers himself off the floor and tentatively approaches Frank. He's not wearing the jacket he had on when Gerard met him in in the elevator. Gerard spins around trying to locate it. There: on the back of the door. A quick rifle through the pockets reveals a lighter, some loose change and a guitar pick. And then he sees it. The button on the lapel bearing a peace sign.

With shaking fingers Gerard works the button free and prises open the back to reveal a tiny key with a security deposit box number on it. Kissing the key and throwing Frank's body a look of gratitude, he affixes the key inside his own lapel badge and heads for the bank.

  


 

~~~~~

  


Gerard shakes his head and tries to dispel the hysterical laugh that threatens to bubble up in his throat. He's hiding behind a tree across the road from the bank, trying to act all stealthy like a member of Charlie's Angels or some shit.

Through the bank's glass doors he can see one guard who looks like, well, a guard, and not some sort of minion escaped from hell, so that's a plus.

He doesn't see the wind swirl around some dust and debris in the gutter next to him as it rises and coalesces into a vaguely humanoid figure.

Gerard takes a deep breath, steadies himself and steps off the kerb towards the bank.

EEEERRKHH!

Gerard whips his head around to the left to see a taxi screeching to a halt inches away from him.

"Get outta the fucking road!" the driver yells.

Gerard mumbles an assent and stumbles to the safety of the opposite kerb, his nerves severely rattled.

He rushes into the bank and heads for the central desk to fiddle with some pay-in slips and pens on chains and calm his breathing to something less than a pant. He gives himself a pep talk and, fingering the key, reminds himself of all the people who have already made a sacrifice to get him this far.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

SIXTEEN

 

Inside the bank's vault, faced with row upon row of tiny doors, Gerard breathes a huge sigh of relief and wipes the sweat from his forehead. It couldn't have gone more smoothly. Upon presenting the key to a member of staff, he had been ushered into an office, made to listen to the rules of entering the bank vault and led to the box that matched his key.

With eager anticipation he fumbles the tiny key into the lock and turns it, hearing a decisive clunk-

KABOOM!

Lightning flashes, thunder shakes Gerard's skull and he's thrown backwards before the cool tiled floor smacks him in the back of the head.

He lies there frantically trying to get his breath but the air is filled with dirt. Each inhale clogs his nose and throat and he coughs and splutters, desperately trying to get enough air.

A creeping cold steels over him, seeping into his blood and bones.

He claws at his throat and his heels skid on the tiles as he tries to fight against an invisible foe.

He can feel the life force leaching out of him and, as his vision blurs and darkens, he sees a hideous figure in a gas mask loom over him.

  


 

~~~~~

  


With great effort, Gerard opens his eyes, only to squint them against the gritty air.

The smooth tiled floor is gone and, instead, Gerard can feel rocks digging into his back. He is back on the spectral plane.

He squirms, turning his head left and right, but all he can see, for miles in each direction is emptiness and decay. All that's in front of him is Mother War.

She hovers over him, her brittle white hair enveloping them both, her eyes two black emotionless voids.

He tries to cry out but Mother War takes the end of the tube that feeds into her gas mask and clamps it over his mouth.

Gerard flails and claws and tries to turn his head but she is strong.

He hears a distant whooshing that comes closer and closer until he realises it's coming from inside him. She's sucking his life into her mouth.

Gerard cannot move, cannot get away.

He sends a silent apology to Frank for failing him, then closes his eyes and lets everything fade to black.

  


 

~~~~~

  


He's drifting in a featureless void. It's comforting, if only because there is no struggle, no pain.

All is calm. Until it isn't.

A bright bloom of pain erupts in his mouth. He feels what seems like miles of tubing being removed from his throat and then the sweet relief of air, as gritty and ashy as it is.

He looks to the side and sees Mother War lying still on the ground. When he looks back above him Mikey is there, wavering on his feet, but still, blessedly, there. He holds out a hand and Gerard grabs it. He doesn't think about what it means that he can feel it solidly beneath his palm.

"Come," Mikey says. "She won't be out for long."

Gerard can already see her stirring and follows Mikey as fast as he can make his abused body obey him. He raises a hand to a warm stickiness around his mouth and realises he is bleeding.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

SEVENTEEN

 

Running has never been so hard. Gerard thanks the fashion gods that he favours sturdy boots instead of something insubstantial like sandals. He nearly doubles over thinking about running through hell in sandals. The reality of his situation quickly sobers him up.

He pulls Mikey to a stop.

"Come on Gee," Mikey urges, tugging his hand to get him going again.

"But where?" Gerard asks.

"How about away from the homicidal swirling wind that's trying to kill you?" Mikey snarks. "If you stay alive long enough we can figure out a better plan."

They run.

"The report!" Gerard shouts, breathlessly. "I didn't get it at the bank. We have to go back there."

"It'll be destroyed," Mikey says. "Mother War will have ensured it."

"Then what can we do? Where can I get another one?"

"Gee, you're going to be lucky to get out of here alive. Forget the report. It's gone."

They run in a featureless terrain until suddenly it isn't.

They turn a corner that wasn't there a second ago and are in the lobby of BLInd Records.

Mikey immediately changes direction and heads for the doors to get outside again, yanking Gerard with him. They're locked in.

The howling wind picks up and Gerard and Mikey are flung apart. Mother War materialises between them.

Gerard scrambles back towards the wall as Mother War advances upon him. He freezes in terror as she uncoils her gas mask tube.

She lets out a blood-curdling shriek as something pulls her back. Mikey. She rounds on him and slams the tube into his face. He immediately drops.

Gerard watches helplessly as any remaining animation leaves Mikey's body. His brother, in his white gown, now resembles a corpse under a sheet.

She recoils from the body and launches herself at Gerard.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

EIGHTEEN

 

For the first time since he signed the record contract with BLInd, Mikey doesn't feel cold. He doesn't feel much of anything.

He floats pleasantly with no demands on his mind or body. No orders from Korse to defy.

He thought he had been dead before, but really he was an undead slave.

He thinks he feels happy, as much as he can feel anything, that he is now free. No pain. No struggle. No obligations tugging at his soul.

A faint glimmer of a smile tugs at his lips and he lets go.

It feels like hours pass, or days, and he waits to slide out of existence.

But there's tiny a nagging doubt in his mind.

There is still one thing he has to do.

With Herculean effort Mikey flickers open his eyes. The sight of his brother, greying and so close to the end, awakens something in him.

Slowly, so slowly, he drags himself across the floor. He prays that Mother War doesn't hear him, and she doesn't.

The nothingness threatens to envelope him and he fights it with everything he has. An infinity later he reaches Gerard and the life-sucking demon atop him. Gerard's eyes are closed, his breathing barely perceptible.

With everything he has, he launches himself onto Mother War's back and, with numb, struggling, fingers, unlatches the straps of the gas mask.

Hoping that it is enough, he thuds to the ground, spent.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

NINETEEN

 

A rattling sound filters into his consciousness. Gerard realises it is his own shallow breathing.

He startles to find Mother War's semi-decayed corpse pinning him to the floor and pushes at it frantically until he can wriggle free. It seems death has made her fleshly and he is disgusted to see maggots and cockroaches skitter out from her rotted sinews.

With a shudder, he edges away from her body and sees Mikey lying still on the ground. He collapses to his knees and takes Mikey's face in his hands. He looks like he's sleeping peacefully. Gerard searches for a pulse or a sign of breathing, even though he's not sure if Mikey's respiratory system was what was keeping him animated on this plane.

Gerard's already lost Mikey once and he doesn't know if he can do it again. He covers his face with his hands and lets out a sob.

Wherever Mikey is now, at least he's at peace. Gerard brushes his sleeve across his face to clear his tears and tries to work out what his next move is. He can't linger here for long. It definitely isn't safe.

A thought occurs to him and, hoping against hope, he searches his pockets for a scrap of paper and, if he's very lucky, a phone number ticket out of here.

Someone's fighting his corner. He clutches the piece of paper with one remaining phone number like the lifeline it is and heads for the doors.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

TWENTY

 

Gerard's pretty sure it's shock that he's in. He doesn't remember the journey back to the corporeal plane but here he is, sitting in his ordinary-looking apartment looking at the familiar sight of empty takeout boxes, dirty laundry and records strewn across every available surface.

Before he can even process what a longshot it is, he picks up his phone and calls Brian.

Amazingly, he answers.

"You made it!" Brian says.

"Yeah, but not exactly successfully," Gerard replies.

"The report. I'm sorry to lose it but there will hopefully be another chance to take a shot at BLInd before too long."

"I'm sorry," Gerard says. "I tried, really, I just ..."

"Hey, it's ok."

"Mikey, he ..."

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Brian says. "But he's in a much better place now, beyond the reach of Korse and everyone. Frank's there too. When Mikey took out Mother War, all her victims' souls were released."

Gerard feels relief for a worry he didn't know he was carrying. As much as he misses Mikey and feels guilty about Frank, at least they are somewhere beyond suffering.

"What about her?" he asks.

"Gone. Forever. But Korse - that's another story. He remains as dangerous as he's always been."

"So it's really over?" Gerard asks. "I can't believe I went through all that for nothing."

"While people like you are willing to take a stand, there's always hope."

"So what now? We go back to our regular lives. Shit - we're way behind schedule on the next issue of 'Spyglass'."

"About that," Brian says. "I'm not going to be around any more."

"What?"

"Let's just say I'm firmly on Korse's radar now. I can't get away with hopping between the planes any more. Goodbye Gerard. It's been a pleasure knowing you."

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

TWENTY-ONE

 

Gerard stirs as he hears the thump of a letter hitting his doormat.

He's about to roll over and go back to sleep - with Brian gone it's not as if he has a job to go to - when he decides that two weeks of wallowing is enough. Yes, he failed to help Frank with his dying wish and, yes, Mikey is no less dead than before, but mooching around his apartment isn't going to help.

He heaves himself out of bed and flicks on his coffee machine before snagging the letter from the mat.

It's from Grace Iero.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

TWENTY-TWO

 

Gerard nervously runs his hand through his straggly black hair. He catches sight of his reflection in the glass of a painting and is reassured to see his familiar shaggy black locks. The art gallery was Grace's choice of a meeting place but, he has to admit, it's pretty nice.

He sits on one of the wooden benches and zones out looking at a painting of an apocalyptic desert-scape.

He startles when a young woman sits beside him. She looks poised in opposition to his nerviness, and looks at him with searching eyes.

"Gerard?" she asks.

"Um, yeah?"

"Jesus, you look just like the pictures," he hears her mumble. Then, louder: "Thanks for meeting me here. I'm sorry to be so clandestine but I've got something I think you could use."

She holds out a large envelope which Gerard takes and peeks into. It's a copy of Frank's report.

"Thank you," he says, excitement and relief coursing through him as he realises what this means. "I don't know what to say."

"There's something else as well," she continues. "A long time ago Uncle Frank gave me some letters that were written to him during the war. I feel like you should have them. After you read them, I hope you understand why."

Gerard silently accepts the letters, again at a loss for words.

"I'd better go," she says. "The less contact we have the safer it is for both of us. Goodbye Gerard."

Gerard sites mutely on the bench, too stunned to reply.

The despair he has felt for the last few weeks ebbs away. He has a chance to do some good, even if only a little. With renewed purpose he rises and strides out of the gallery. He remembers Brian once telling him about a pirate DJ he knew - Dr Death Defying maybe? - and figures that's as good a way as any to get the news about the Walkman out there.


	10. Letters from the Asylum (Part 2)

 

 

 

**Arkham Asylum, Bruges**

**28 December 1918**

Frank,

Things are rapidly spiralling out of my control. It was my intention to hide out here in Belgium for a while and try to stave off thoughts of Mikey and what terrible fate awaits me at home (you know I wasn't cut out to inherit the family business).

I have, as I mentioned before, begun to play the Sergeant's compositions for him. He's a tiresome task-master! Nothing I play is good enough for him. Though I know I play excellently it cannot match up to his memory of how he used to play. The deluded fool! Bob entreats me to be patient with him but I struggle, especially since playing the Sergeant's second-rate compositions has put fire in my blood to return to my own composing.

I have written a remarkable piece, something I didn't even think I was capable of. It's an elegy of sorts, full of the sorrows of the war and memories of Mikey, which I have tentatively titled 'The Black Parade'. Occasionally, I fancy that I catch sight of the Sergeant listening while I work.

One night we had a special guest at the club, one of the Sergeant's musician friends, Billie Joe Armstrong visited from Brussels. (I assume that even you have heard of _him_ , Frank.) Bob informed me that the Sergeant wished me to play 'Planetary (Go)', to which Billie responded favourably. (You will believe me when I say, Frank, that the best ideas in it are mine.)

After much persuasion on the part of the Sergeant, Billie has agreed that it is to be recorded and published. When I tried to ask him what my recompense would be Bob delivered a swift kick to my shin. Undeterred, I asked him if he would be interested in listening to and recording some of my own compositions, in particular an elegy about the war. The Sergeant quickly cut me off with some nonsense about it being another piece _he_ was composing. I realise now how precarious my position here really is. It seems that anything I write under the Sergeant's roof will become his property unless I can keep it secret from him.

Spencer has returned from Amsterdam as a changed man. His bitchiness is gone and replaced with a new softness and regard for others. If before he was as beautiful as a perfectly sculpted statue - hard and remote - then now he is an exquisite creature of flesh and blood. During the first performance after he returned, he moved from his spot in front of the microphone and approached me at the piano. As my fingers roamed up and down the keys his roamed across my shoulders, up my neck and through my hair. He kept his eyes on the crowd and it was as if he was showing me off to them.

If it was not for him, staying here would have become untenable.

xG.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Arkham Asylum, Bruges**

**5 January 1919**

Frank,

Things are looking up. Spencer and I grow closer daily. He's had some ideas about new songs for the set and asked me to learn them. Each one is a love song, dripping with all the things I want to say to him and, it appears, he wants to say to me in return. I barely have time to attend to them, between the Sergeant's constant demands for my transcribing and playing services and Bob's demands for my body which, sadly, have become tiresome. I don't dare say no to either but it is becoming clear that I must, sooner or later.

Great news, Frank. Remember the visit from Billie I told you about? He has written to me to express interest in hearing my compositions. It seems the Sergeant hasn't pulled the wool completely over his eyes.

G.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Chateau Zedelghem, Bruges**

**11 January 1919**

Frank,

It's over. I've left the club. I can't live under the roof of that tyrant any longer. I made the foolish mistake of leaving my manuscript for Billie with the rest of the club's outgoing mail. I saw the day's mail on the bartop, awaiting Bob taking it to the post office in town and was compelled to double-check the address. It's fortuitous that I did, for I saw that the package had been opened. My letter had been replaced with one claiming that the Sergeant had written the contained pieces of music. How dare he!

I stormed about the club until I found him in the cellar, struggling to one-handedly open a bottle of claret, and planned to tell him exactly what I thought of him.

"Look at you!" I roared. "Look what you've become - a doddering old fool who can't play the piano, can't stay sober past noon, can't write an original composition worth a damn!"

"Why you-

"And what's more, you can't even keep your bed in order. Or else why would Bob have been warming mine for that past month?"

The piteous old wretch rose up to his full height and fixed a steely look upon me:

"You think I don't know? You think you're the first? You think I don't sanction everything that goes on under my roof?" His voice rose to a roar. "You pathetic little whore! _I_ let you stay here. _I_ let you learn the art of music at my feet. I _let_ you keep Bob occupied, you ignoramus."

I was flabbergasted. He continued:

"And _I_ , with one word, can snuff out the rest of your life. I know how disappointed your father would be if he found out what you are. You were a snivelling coward on the battlefield and you're a deluded child when it comes to affairs of business and the heart. I can write one letter and leave you with nowhere to turn, in Europe or America."

With that he shouldered past me and stumbled up the cellar stairs. I was left speechless. What could I do, Frank, but leave?

I ran to my room and started to pack. Bob appeared the door looking grim.

"Don't apologise for him," I started. I hastily flung all my compositions together, shut my suitcase and headed for the door.

"Go, if you like," Bob replied coldly, "but remember to leave all manuscripts on your way out. They belong to him now."

The fight went out of me. I slumped onto the bed, clutching my manuscripts to my chest. I looked at Bob's unrelenting eyes and he knew he'd won.

"OK," I gave in. "I'll stay."

"Then you won't be needing those," he said, indicating the sheaf of papers.

Reluctantly, I handed them over.

"You're on at seven tonight," was his parting blow.

  


 

~~~~~

  


I don't know how I got through the show that night, Frank. Spencer was my only ray of hope. He gave no indication that he knew anything about the whole sordid business. He was his usual beguiling self and, for the short time we were on stage together for the final time, I allowed myself to pretend that everything was going to be OK. Something in his smile - a little wider, perhaps, or brighter - gave me the hope that he felt the same way.

I knew that if I wanted to get out with what was mine, I would have to fly under the cover of night. It was an agonising wait for drunken revellers to leave, Bob to pack up the bar, the Sergeant to drink himself into a stupor and silence to descend over the club. Before morning light I gathered my belongings and bade goodbye to the club, never to return. I was damn sure not going to leave my music behind so I steeled my nerve and crept into the Sergeant's bedroom.

The Sergeant and Bob were heavily asleep, lying back to back in their bed. I spotted my papers on the desk and, cursing every creak of the old floorboards, made my way over to retrieve them. I was on my way back out the door when a grunt from Bob froze me mid-step. He shifted onto his back and my heart leapt into my throat as I thought he would surely wake and catch me. But, as I remained stock still, his breathing evened out and I felt air fill my lungs again.

I should have left then, but something compelled me to step closer to the bed and examine the face of the man who had held so much power over me. The Sergeant looked peaceful in his slumber, innocent even. It repulsed me to see him looking at peace, at odds with his ferocious nature. I caught sight of a glint in the half-open drawer next to his bed and, without thinking, reached out to touch it. It was cold steel: his service revolver. I cannot say why, Frank, but I took it with me, tucking it under my shirt before finally leaving the room.

On my way to retrieve my suitcase I noticed that the door to Spencer's room was open and the bed empty. He must have been continuing the evening's revelry with one of the club's patrons - it was not unusual. I spared a few moments to lie on Spencer's bed and think about the way things could have been, if only the world was a just place.

And now I lie in a frigid bed at the inn I stayed in on my very first night here, desperately trying to formulate a new plan.

xG.

P.S. I took some more books for you to palm off on McFeeley and - you'll never believe it - I found the second half of 'The Livejournal of Gerard Arthur Way'.

  


 

~~~~~

 

  


**Monmartre Apartments, Amsterdam, Netherlands**

**29 January 1919**

F,

Have holed up in a cheap apartment in Amsterdam for now. The damn place is rat infested and I can't seem to shake this terrible cough but it has the twin advantages of solitude and proximity to the Schreierstoren or Weeper's Tower. The first allows me to write without interruption, while the second gives me hope that I may see Spencer again, since it is one of his favourite places to visit in the city. I climb it every day to watch the sun rise before returning to my work, which is going so marvellously I often forget to eat or sleep. 'The Black Parade' is nearly finished. It will be a masterpiece the likes of which the world has not seen.

-G.

  


 

 

~~~~~

 

  


**Monmartre Apartments, Amsterdam, Netherlands**

**7 February 1919**

Frank,

I caught word, through an acquaintance, that Spencer was in the city and each day I made the trip up the Schreierstoren in the hope that he would come. On the fourth day I was rewarded. As I hid in the shadows I saw his delicate profile ascend the stairs and cross the deck to the balcony. He hadn't seen me and I took the opportunity to drink in the sight of him. His day-to-day clothes, though far less ostentatious (and controversial) than his stage costumes revealed a subtle elegance, a certain delicacy of taste without drawing unwanted attention.

He had come to me and here, far from the Sergeant's reach, I could make known my love for him and he could reply in kind.

A cough that I couldn't suppress wracked through me and Spencer started, turning to peer into the gloomy corner where I hid.

"Gerard? It that you? What's happened? You look like hell."

"It's me, love. I'm so glad you came."

Spencer looked confused.

"I can't believe you left us like that, without a pianist. And to steal the Sergeant's work as well. After he was so kind in taking you in," he said.

"You don't have to be afraid of him any more, love," I tried to reassure him. "We can be together now."

"What?" he scoffed. "You're crazy. Crazy, deluded and little more than a common thief."

"They're lies," I cried. "I stole nothing! You are the thief. You stole my heart and now you have come to give me yours in return. Oh Spencer-"

I broke off, coughing.

Spencer's expression went from incredulity to scorn.

"You think I love you?" he asked. "You're nothing to me. Less than nothing."

"But that last night in the club. You were all over me! You smiled so beautifully at me." I was dizzy with confusion by this point.

"Wait five minutes and you'll see the reason behind my happiness," he said.

I didn't even have to wait that long as footsteps echoed up the stairs and Bob appeared on the threshold.

Spencer looked positively evil as he slowly walked over to Bob and twined his arm around his waist. Bob remained as inscrutable as ever.

I couldn't stay there a second longer. How could I have read things so wrongly? I ran past them, heading for the stairs and fled back to my apartment as fast as I could.

I thought I had made myself indispensable to the Sergeant, trading a small portion of my talent for bed and board. I thought I had controlled Bob by allowing him to think he was in charge. I thought Spencer was falling for me.

I was wrong on all counts.

It is a strange type of justice that as I reach the apex of my writing powers it has become the only activity I have left to me.

Damn food, damn sleep, damn this sickness.

'The Black Parade' is the only thing that matters.

G

  


 

 

~~~~~

 

  


**Monmartre Apartments, Amsterdam, Netherlands**

**11 February 1919**

My dearest Frank,

It is over. 'The Black Parade' is laid to rest and now so am I.

It has taken everything I have, but I believe it to be a work of incomparable beauty.

Enclosed you will find the only copy of 'The Black Parade'. Please ensure that it gets to Billie.

Every day I walk to the Schreierstoren in the hope of finding some answers. This morning a familiar silhouette caught my eye and I saw the most welcome sight: you, looking troubled yet hopeful, searching for me on the balcony. I couldn't bear to interrupt so I let you leave without saying a word.

You will find me in my bathtub in apartment 17a. I will have shot myself through the roof of my mouth with Sergeant's revolver.

Only now when it is too late do I realise that I gave up the best thing in my life. I do hope you can forgive me.

Try not to mourn - we do not stay dead long.

Your Gerard.


	11. The Livejournal of Gerard Arthur Way (Part 2)

 

 

 

\- sketchbook anywhere. I guess it'll turn up. I lose things all the time but not stuff that's important to me.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Sun 14 Oct.**

Last night was great. Grant took me to see some of his friends. He said Frank had to stay at the hotel (again) and I don't know where the rest of the group were. I thought teachers were supposed to supervise them all the time? On the ride there, he said that I owed him for letting Frank stay and not to forget. I guess I do. He also told me he talked to some of my other teachers and that my art grade is the only thing that's keeping me from failing. He said he'll let me do some stuff for extra credit. I can't believe how nice he's being.

We drove out to this super-creepy house (I swear it was haunted) to meet this artist couple who make these awesome and intense video installations. They showed me the studio and seemed really interested in my work. I'd brought some of my older sketchbooks and they both said really nice things about some of my comic stuff. Grant didn't say much about my drawings when I showed them to him but I could tell he liked them. I tried to show them the Draculoid stuff 'cause I think they're turning out really good but Grant said it was time to leave. He took my sketchbooks, though, and promised to show it to them later on.

I got to see Frank for a little bit in the hotel lobby when Grant and I got back to the hotel. I told him about the visit and he said he was happy for me but I can tell something's off. I don't think he likes Grant but I don't know why. I tried to ask him about it but he got real quiet and distant.

Grant's been so good to me and he let Frank stay on the trip instead of booting him back home or back to the school. I guess he must have called Frank's parents to ask their permission but I don't want to ask too many questions in case he changes his mind.

When I had to leave Frank again he grabbed onto my arm and had this really intense look on his face. He was clearly trying to tell me something but I didn't know what it was and then Grant said we had to go, like, NOW and dragged me away. It's weird. I know we've only talked for about two hours combined but I feel like Frank and I have met before, a long time ago. I can't explain it.

I'm kinda glad to be getting back home in a few days. I can't wait to see Mikey. And I'm rapidly running out of sketchbooks! I told Grant and he said to stop worrying - there's plenty of paper at the studio that I can use. I'm just worried that I've lost a lot of drawings. Some of them I was really happy with.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Mon 15 Oct.**

Art class again yesterday. I could get used to the studio life! Endless art supplies, beautiful NY light streaming in through 15-foot windows, and about six coffee shops within a block.

Grant took me out for coffee while the others were working on a group project. He said he wanted to talk about my extra credit project. I really wanna make it good. Before, I wasn't so worried about failing and dropping out or moving schools again but now I really don't want to miss out on Grant's classes. And, I know I only just met him, but I'd really like to get the chance to hang out more with Frank.

I thought Grant was gonna give me a new assignment or something but we just talked. He talked for a long time about how the creative world is different from commerce or industry and how the same rules don't apply. He said that it was about making tough choices and maybe even sacrifices so that in the long run I could be true to my art. I'm not sure what he was getting at. I guess he's just trying to motivate me to make the best work I can.

Then he asked about my Draculoid sketches. I told him I still couldn't find any of them. He said not to be worried. I asked him if he could call his artist friends and see if I left some there but he said no and that I shouldn't be showing my half-finished stuff to anyone. Then he said we had to leave.

On the way back we saw this burned out parade float being hauled off somewhere. Grant said that there had been a parade at the weekend. It looked like this float had caught on fire and the way it was all blackened with charcoal and charred struts and damp ash from where the fire brigade must have doused the flames made it look like a beautiful gothic ruin. I wish I'd had a camera with me.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Wed 17 Oct.**

We got back yesterday and I'm at home recuperating. I'm not supposed to be out of bed so I'll try to be brief.

Fuck. You won't believe what's happened to me in the last 24 hours. For the final night of the trip Mr Morrison said he had something special planned for us. It was another gallery visit, but this time to a really cool place in a converted warehouse out in Brooklyn. He said it was some underground artists from the comic book community and some of his own work would be on show as well. I was so excited. I braved Mr Morrison's wrath by asking if Frank could come, since it was the last day of the trip but he said no.

We had dinner at a really cute 1950s-style burger place - the wait staff were on rollerblades! - then went to the gallery. It was opening night so loads of artists and photographers were there and there was wine everywhere. I think I saw some famous inkers but I can't be sure.

Grant got up and did a speech about the exhibition and its themes before they let us (the class and the rest of the viewers) walk around. The space was all split up into little nooks and crannies. The setting was kinda Japanese and futuristic. The walls were a mix of traditional sliding rice paper panels and modern whooshing panels like something from 'The Matrix'. Grant explained that the collection of art was a depiction of the reciprocal nature of progress and subversion. There was a mix of styles. Some of it was sleek and terrifyingly authoritarian, all shiny surfaces and dead eyes. But some of it was a riot of colour - vibrant and dirty and _real_.

Grant was busy talking to his friends so I stole a glass of wine and went off to wander around the exhibition and let it all soak in. I had a nagging feeling of familiarity that I couldn't place. It got stronger as I felt myself drawn to the inner room in a series of spaces cordoned-off by moveable screens. The placard on one of the walls announced that this room contained Grant's work but I looked around and all I could see was mine. _My_ drawings, _my_ paintings, sketches and finished work torn from _my_ sketchbooks and reformed into collages and mounted on canvases.

At first I thought he'd done me a favour and exhibited my work at a prestigious event. But they weren't quite right. The Draculoids looked different in this setting - more menacing. And he'd altered them, added shading that I never would have drawn. I looked closely and found Grant's signature in the bottom right-hand corner of each one.

My mind was reeling. I felt sick to my stomach. I ran to the fire escape and headed up, needing to get some air, to get away from that room. On the roof, I flung my wine glass aside and leaned over the railing taking deep, heaving breaths and looking at the tiny cars and people carrying on as normal below.

How could he do this to me? It was _my_ work. But, then again, he'd had a lot of input into it. What if he believed we created it together? If that was the case, I should still get some credit. His speech from the coffee shop came back to me. I'd thought he was talking about me having to make sacrifices in the future. It turns out he was talking about now. But was it worth it? Giving up my work to him in return for his continued support?

These questions and more spun around in my head and no firm answers came to me. I heard laughter behind me and saw Grant on the other side of the roof, smoking and talking to a Japanese woman in a suit. She didn't look like one of his artist buddies. She looked grim as he talked to her about scarecrows, of all things.

Without thinking I stormed across to confront him. Grant saw me coming and started to wave, a stupid grin on his face, until he saw my fury and dropped all pretence at being my friend. His eyes became steely and he barked at his lady friend to leave.

"I don't want to hear it," he gritted out. "I did what I had to do. One day you'll understand."

"Like hell I will," I growled at him. "That was my work, my property, my ideas!"

"I think you'll find that's my name on them, and by tomorrow morning reviews of _my_ new work will be printed in every newspaper and art blog in the city."

I was beside myself with anger and, more than that, hurt. I'd trusted Grant and he'd fleeced me for everything I had. With tears in my eyes I lunged at him. I felt a sharp stinging blow to the face and gravel cut into my palms as he leaned over me.

"What, did you think I was helping you out of the kindness of my heart? Did you think you were special? You were so easy to manipulate, so willing to do anything I asked in return for a tiny crumb of praise. You're a pathetic, talentless fool."

I felt his cooling saliva slide down my bloodied face.

He was wrong. I may have been easily flattered by the recognition he offered, but he needed something from me, too. Turning to face him I spat out:

"If I'm so talentless, why is it my art on the gallery wall under your name?"

Grant's face screwed up as he snarled in rage and strode towards me. Grabbing me by the shoulders he picked me up and shoved me towards the ledge. I stumbled on the loose gravel as he pushed us nearer to the edge. His hands closed around my throat and I swear I saw a silhouette emerge from behind one of the building's gargoyle's before everything went black.

I woke up gasping for air. My throat felt as if I'd been gargling with barbed wire. A gentle hand caressed the less bloodied side of my face and a familiar voice said:

"You're safe. I promise. He's gone forever."

"Frank? How did you get here?" I whispered hoarsely.

"Shh. We really have to go."

I heard sirens in the distance getting louder.

I struggled to my feet and Frank helped me stand. He guided me to the edge of the rooftop and, at my puzzled look, pointed over the edge. Holding his hand, I leaned over the edge to look.

On the pavement below, surrounded by a halo of blood, lay Grant's smashed body. I closed my eyes and felt a great weight lift from me.

Frank pulled me back in the direction of the stairs and what happened next is a blur of half-formed images: photographers' flashbulbs, paramedics' torches shining in my eyes, the gallery's other occupants looking shocked or crying.

I guess we must have gone back to the hotel at some point because suddenly my mom and Mikey were there after driving through the night. They took me home and had to take Frank too since I wouldn't let go of his hand.

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Thu 18 Oct.**

I wanted to sleep forever but the endless list of people wanting to question me had different ideas. First my mom, and then the police, and then I had a visit from the Principal. I told them all the same story and could see them trying to assimilate it into their view of the world as a safe, ordered place. I could see them making excuses in their heads - Grant was under a lot of pressure, I was a difficult student, and so on. Mikey was the only one I could count on to understand and my mom made him go to school despite both our protests.

Finally everyone left and I was left alone with Frank. I still had a lot of questions for him.

He told me how suspicious he had been of Grant. He had seen Grant carrying the sketchbook I lost and offered to take it back to me, but Grant got angry and told him to mind his own business. I guess that's why he kept us separate after that. He told me how he followed us to the gallery that night when he was supposed to stay in the hotel, then followed me to the roof to talk to me but had to hide when he saw Grant. I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't been there, but I'm pretty sure it could have ended with me on the pavement instead of Grant.

It's funny, even after what happened, what he did to me, and probably other people too, I kinda feel grateful to Grant in a way. I now know how important it is to trust myself and trust my instincts, to speak up for those who can't defend themselves and to look out for both myself and others. Grant's gone now but there will be others like him. There _are_ others like him at that god-awful school I have to go back to. But maybe I can make it a little better. I have secret plans in the offing, which I'll tell you about soon :)

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Mon 22 Oct.**

I went back to school today. Nothing and everything has changed. The Principal held this big assembly where he lectured on the dangers of non-conformity and the punishment awaiting those who try to subvert authority. He turned Mr Morrison into a saint who died in a tragic accident because of his dedication to teaching. That's not exactly how I remember it. We've got a new art teacher who hates comics and wants us to paint nothing but bowls of fruit. I've got a feeling my art grade is going to suffer.

At least Frank knows what really happened. We're not in any of the same classes but every lunchtime (and every time we skip class) we hang out and it makes the day a little more tolerable. I don't think anyone at school knows exactly what happened on the rooftop but the football team seems to leave him alone more now. It's a small victory and we're working on a bigger one. Frank is as pissed off at the system as I am and, when we talk together, we get all fired up. I can't wait to see what we can accomplish.

Even better news: Mikey might be transferring here as well. I can't wait!

  


 

~~~~~

 

 

**Wed 7 Nov.**

Tonight is the first meeting of the Our Lady of Peace High School's Gay-Straight Alliance! Mikey knew about everything that's been happening in the last few months, about what happened to Frank in the locker room and how I wanted to help make school a little more bearable. He suggested setting up the group and now it's finally happening.

Tonight, in the AV lounge, we're having a movie night ('Priscilla, Queen of the Desert'!) with popcorn and badge-making. Frank and I have been flyering around school and I think we're going to get a good turn-out. It was really hard work to convince the Principal about the need for the club. He seems to think that his school doesn't have any bullies (!) and that I'm wasting my time trying to fix things that aren't broken. But if I can change the life of one person for the better, even just my own, isn't it worth it?

I was thinking I should start a band ...

  


 

**THE END**


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